ArPharazon the Golden and the Heirs of Amandil
by Rob Rastorp
Summary: A chronicle of the downfall of Numenor and the founding of Arnor and Gondor.
1. Sauron's Challenge

**I.) Sauron's Challenge**

On his black throne in the heart of the Barad-dur, Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, laughed. It was a high, clear laugh, like the ringing of a bell, and seemed out of place in the grim surroundings of the throne room. As did the Dark Lord himself; tall, slim, cloaked in robes of crimson and sable. His robes, long black hair, and ruby lips contrasted with the paleness of his skin, which was like white marble, unmarred by any flaw. His eyes were a clear blue, bright and keen. As fair of face as any Elven-lord, he bore a striking resemblance to one of the Noldor, those High Elves who in an earlier age had journeyed in exile from Valinor to Middle Earth. On the third finger of his long, slender right hand, he bore a golden ring. This ring, inscribed with letters in Elvish script that glowed curiously, was his only adornment.

In his own mind, Sauron was the Lord and Master of Middle Earth, and King of Men. Yet it appeared the King of Numenor, that distant island of the Men of the West, nigh to the shores of Valinor, had other ideas. Ar-Pharazon the Golden styled himself the ruler of all lands east of Valinor, and viewed Sauron's growing power in Middle Earth with dismay and contempt. Who was this loathsome beast Sauron, a slave whose master had long since been defeated, to challenge the might of Numenor? Who was he to challenge Ar-Pharazon the Golden, the King of Men, descendent of Earendil the Mariner, and heir to his fabled son Elros Half-Elven? Who was Sauron to challenge the heir to the ancestors of Elros, the proud mortal Beren and the fair Elf-maiden Luthien Tinuviel of legend, who had cut a Silmaril jewel from the iron crown of Morgoth while he lay in an enchanted sleep? Who was Sauron, master only of a reeking horde of vile Orcs and brutal wild Men, of slag-pits and dung-heaps, to challenge Numenor, with its palaces of marble, gold, silver and ivory, its broad plains and high mountains, its thousands of ships of war, its millions of brave warriors, its mighty royal family and nobility, who were blessed with long life and great powers of mind and body, the wisest and fairest Men upon Earth?

Numenor was Queen of the Seas, and Ar- Pharazon was adamant that she should be master of the lands of Middle Earth. He had sent his cousin Lord Armeneltir of Nindemos as ambassador to the Dark Tower, the Barad-dur, with a message and a warning for Sauron. Drawing himself up to his full height of well over six feet, a lofty sneer on his dark-bearded face, Armeneltir issued Sauron with an ultimatum. The so-called Dark Lord must withdraw his forces to the east of the great river Anduin, and at least two-hundred miles from the Sea in all directions. He must send to Numenor every year a tribute of one million pounds of gold, silver, jewels, and ivory. He must do this, or there would be war. Either the self-styled Dark Lord would pass under the yoke of Numenor, or King Ar-Pharazon the Golden would deal with him as the Valar had dealt with his vanquished master in the elder days.

Ambassador Armeneltir, reflected Sauron, did not seem quite so haughty now that his soft skin had tasted the whips of Orcish torturers. It was the broken man's screams that had brought laughter to Sauron, for he ever reveled in the sport of torment.

"Something the matter, my lord?" asked Ugnash, Chief Torturer of the Dungeons of Barad-dur, summoned to the throne room in order to demonstrate his art to the once-proud Ambassador. Ugnash, being an Orc, was quite incapable of laughter, and found it oddly disconcerting when it issued from the lips of his Cruel Master. "Perhaps something a little stronger than a whip, my lord? An iron from the fire?"

"No Ugnash" said Sauron, in his clear, ringing voice, "I think you have given our esteemed guest a fair sampling of your talents". He looked down at Armeneltir, who groveled at his feet, begging for an end to his torment. "My dear Ambassador, whatever seems to be the matter?" asked Sauron. "Just this morning, you assured me that the Men of proud Numenor were as powerful as gods. You claimed that they could be compared to the Valar, the Lords of the West themselves. I merely wished to test the truth of that assertion. Though I must confess, I am somewhat disappointed. I don't believe that a god would allow himself to crawl on my floor because he had tasted a few lashes from an Orcish whip. Nor would he need bodyguards, I daresay, though at least my Orcs found a use for them." Ugnash belched and licked his lips.

"Forgive me, my lord!" sniveled Armeneltir through his bruised lips.

"Why, there is nothing to forgive, my dear Ambassador" replied Sauron. "Indeed, it is I who should ask your forgiveness. As a Lord of Numenor and ambassador, you must be in need of a swift reply for your mighty King. And yet I have taken up an entire day of your valuable time to indulge my idle curiosity." Sauron's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you willing to be of service to me, so that through you I may send my reply to His Majesty?"

"Yes, my lord!" pleaded Armeneltir. He let out a racking cough, blood issuing from the corner of his mouth. "What message shall I carry to the King?" he wheezed.

Sauron allowed a faint smile to appear on his lips.

* * *

At his post by the gate of Pelargir, young Ulbar the guardsman shivered beneath the heavy woolen cloak that covered his thin tunic of blue and green cloth. The starless sky was so black that he could barely see through the dank, chill air beyond the shafts of light issuing through the iron grille of the portcullis barring the gate. Such darkness seemed unnatural so close to the dawn, and was all the more unwelcome in a city so close to the frontiers of Mordor. For Pelargir, an ancient city-colony of Numenor, lay on the western shore of the mouth of the great river Anduin. Barely a hundred miles to the east lay the Mountains of Shadow, the western marches of the Black Land.

That Pelargir was an important outpost of mighty Numenor should have made its citizens feel safe. Yet all of them, Ulbar included, lived in growing fear of the Shadow from the East. Sauron the Dark Lord had been powerful for as many generations as the Men of Pelargir could remember, yet in recent years his power seemed to have waxed considerably. It seemed that every year his armies of Orcs, and wild Men of the East and South, camped closer to the shores of the Anduin. It was even rumoured that recently his armies had crossed to the western shores of Anduin many miles to the north, and were ravaging the villages of the pitiful wild Men of those lands.

Ulbar cursed, and shivered again. He consoled himself by thinking that not even Sauron would dare to meddle with a city under the sovereignty of Numenor. At least, as long as he stood within the lights cast from the city gate, he was completely safe. Only another hour until dawn, then his turn at the watch would be over, and he could get some much needed ale and rest.

A cracking sound, like the snapping of a branch underfoot, issued from the darkness beyond the gate. Ulbar felt a cold pit forming in his stomach, and leapt to attention. "Halt! Who goes there?" he shouted, as much to reassure himself as to fulfill his duty.

Stealthily, a squat figure crept into the light. It was one of the wild Men of South, noted Ulbar with alarm, wrapped in robes of sable, armed only with a short curved sword hanging in an ebon scabbard from his leather belt. Under his left arm, he bore a package of some sort, wrapped in dark cloth.

"You stand at the gate of Pelargir, City of Numenor!" shouted Ulbar. "State your business quickly, barbarian!"

The facial scar that ran along the Southron's olive skin creased as he opened his mouth. "Peace!" he said, in a soft, sly voice, speaking the tongue of Numenor with an outlandish accent. "I am but a lone herald. I bear a message from Sauron, King of Men, to Ar-Pharazon the Golden of Numenor. Will you accept my message, and bear it to the Captain of the Guard of Pelargir, so that his Lord the City-Master may arrange for it to be borne over the Sea to his liege-lord?"

"Give me your message and be gone, foreign dog!" snarled Ulbar. "I've better things to do with my time, even while standing watch, then bandy words with one of Sauron's maggots."

The Southron smiled mockingly. Quick as a striking snake, he threw at Ulbar the cloth-wrapped package he had held under his arm!

Ulbar let out a sharp cry, yet stood still for some moments, too petrified to move. Then, beginning to recover his wits, he sounded the alarm. Within half a minute, the iron portcullis was raised, and a score of guardsmen, garbed in the blue-and-green tunics of Pelargir, rushed through the gate. Spears at the ready, they demanded that Ulbar tell what threat had led to his summoning them. The Southron had slipped back into the darkness beyond the gate before their arrival, and all they saw was Ulbar standing by himself, staring stupidly at the ground. Then they looked down, and in an instant fell as silent as the grave. In the dust lay the bruised, severed head of Lord Armeneltir, cousin to Ar-Pharazon the Golden, King of Numenor.


	2. The King's Reply

**II.) The King's Reply**

In his chambers of marble inlaid with ebony, in the highest tower of the Palace of Armenelos, at the heart of the fair isle of Numenor, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden smashed yet another priceless vase of crystal to the floor, and shouted even more curses at Gods, Demons, Elves and Men.

"The fiend!" cried Ar-Pharazon, his blue and gold robes disheveled, his silver beard bobbing up and down as he formed his words. "The filthy devil! Am I Sauron's dog, that I send my cousin to him as ambassador, and he sends me back his severed head? Men and Orcs beyond number will die screaming for this foul deed! Mark my words, I will have Sauron himself groveling at my feet before I am done with him!"

Amandil, Lord of Andunie, gazed carefully at his liege, but remained silent. He had been friends with Pharazon in their early youth, before the man's true character had begun to reveal itself. Amandil knew well his distant cousin's temper, and how dangerous it was to interrupt him when he was in one of his imperious rages.

As the King waxed wroth, Amandil quietly reflected on how such a man had come to be King of Numenor, the most powerful Man in all the world. Not by the rules of kingship, for by all rights Ar-Pharazon's first cousin, Queen Miriel, should have occupied the golden throne. But Ar-Pharazon had an unshakeable belief in his own destiny, and was not about to allow the archaic laws of inheritance – or of marriage - to stand in his way. Through bribes and promises, he had purchased the loyalty of a party of venal, ambitious nobles – "The King's Men" as they were known – and with their support had married her against her will. Abusing his new status as Prince Consort, Ar-Pharazon then declared himself King, violating those ancient laws of the Numenoreans that governed marriage and the royal succession.

That was many decades ago. For the Men of the Royal House of Numenor, and those Nobles related to it, were the descendents of Elros Half-Elven of legend, known amongst Men as King Tar-Minyatur. Like all Numenoreans, they had been blessed by the grace of the Valar with a lifespan that could be measured in centuries, and from their Half-Elvish ancestry they had inherited powers of mind and body otherwise reserved for their immortal kin. Ar-Pharazon was more than one-hundred and fifty years old, even older than Amandil, though his appearance was that of a common man of sixty years. But the passage of time seemed to have whetted rather than slaked his ambitions, not to mention his pride. Pride, and power; those were the touchstones of Ar-Pharazon the Golden, the twin compasses by which he navigated the course of his life.

As King of Numenor, Ar-Pharazon had power beyond the dreams of other Men. Only to the west, in the holy land of Valinor, could Ar-Pharazon not make any claim to dominion. Except for that holy land in the West of West, he was lord of all the Seas of all the world, and of all the coasts of the lands of Middle Earth.

Yet that was not enough for him; not nearly enough. This much Amandil knew: Ar-Pharazon was determined to extend his power deep into the interior of Middle Earth, which was held by Sauron, the Dark Lord of old. Hence Ar-Pharazon's dispatching his maternal cousin Armeneltir as ambassador to the Dark Tower. Armeneltir had been a vain, pompous man, proud as a peacock. Ar-Pharazon had chosen Armeneltir for the embassy to Mordor precisely because of the man's pompous manner, trusting it would send Sauron a clear message about the contempt in which Ar-Pharazon held him, and emphasize the power of Numenor. However, as recent events showed, that contempt flowed in both directions.

Ar-Pharazon had ceased his ranting, at least for the time being, and now his fiery blue eyes stared craftily at Amandil. "So cousin" said the King, "you have seen this vile insult that the carrion-lord Sauron has offered up to me. How would you deal with it, were you King of Numenor in my place?"

"Far be it from me to assume the place of His Majesty" replied Amandil.

"A shrewd answer" said Ar-Pharazon, smiling grimly. "Say then what is your counsel as my advisor".

Amandil reflected carefully. In his one-hundred and forty years, he had learned many things, and in recent decades judging the mood of the King had proved one of the most important of them. All the same, Amandil placed the good of Numenor above even his own life, and would not on any account offer Ar-Pharazon advice that might bring harm to his beloved land.

After a few moments silence, Amandil replied. "Clearly, the challenge that Sauron has offered up to you cannot go unanswered. By breaking the sacred law of Gods and Men that holds the person of an ambassador to be inviolable, Sauron has shown himself to be reckless and a criminal."

"That he has, by the fiends!" shouted Ar-Pharazon, well pleased, and without any apparent irony.

"The question then" said Amandil, "is how we should best respond to such a crime. Justice demands that Sauron be held accountable for his foul deed. But, we must carefully consider the means by which we hold him to account. Numenor is master of the seas, but on land Sauron is still a power to be reckoned with..."

"Sauron is a walking dung-heap!" shouted the King, his bad-humour restored.

"His armies are very great, my liege..."

"Armies?" spat the King. "Do you call a rabble of mindless Orcs and filthy barbarians an army? The scum who serve Sauron would not be worthy of the name "army" were they ten times as numerous! You disappoint me, cousin. Gaze out yonder window, and you shall see what a true army looks like!"

Amandil leaned out the window, through which drifted a cool breeze from the Western Sea. Beneath him lay the white marble spires of the Palace, and beyond them stretched the glittering sprawl of Armenelos, its mansions, houses and broad streets teeming with more than a million citizens. Amandil could see the many fair gardens deemed by the citizenry the emerald jewels of Amernelos, and the glint of sunlight shinging from the winding canals spanned by their graceful bridges. Beyond the marble walls of the city lay open fields, and the sparkling blue river that snaked its way through the Armenelos toward the Sea. At least, he had seen these open fields on his journey to the Palace ten days before, answering the summons of the King. For what he saw beyond the city walls now made him gasp with amazement!

Amandil had been so busy attending the receptions and engaging in the tiresome banter with officials and matrons that filled the days of the capital's elite that he had not paid any attention to what was taking place outside the city. He had heard rumours that military exercises were being held in the fields, but paid little heed to them. Yet now he saw that Ar-Pharazon had already decided on the manner of his reply to Sauron. Where ten days before had stood open fields, there now stood row upon row of soldiers, their numbers beyond counting, their tents of blue, gold and white neatly arranged, stretching across the fields to the horizon. The King must have ordered these forces, stationed across the length and breadth of Numenor, to muster at Armenelos on the double.

"Do you see now the manner of my reply, cousin?" asked Ar-Pharazon.

"I do, my liege" answered Amandil, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

"Within seven days" boasted Ar-Pharazon, "there will be a million men in that field. They will march to the harbour, where I have summoned a thousand ships of war to await them. They will then board the ships, a thousand men to a vessel. Two weeks from today, I myself shall board my flagship, and lead my men to open war against Sauron, lord of vipers! I shall smash his rabble, break open his Dark Tower, and make him bow before my feet! Then, all the world shall see that Ar-Pharazon, King of Men, is alone their Lord and Master!"

Amandil was speechless. Ar-Pharazon eyed him coldly.

"Your reaction does not surprise me, cousin, even if it does disappoint me," said the King. "I took your measure long ago, and know well that for all your skill as a captain of the Sea, you have no stomach for war. I am ashamed to think that any Man related to me, who has the blood of Earendil and Elros flowing through his veins, should not embrace the thrills and perils of war, should not lust for the ringing of sword on shield, or delight in the blaring of trumpets and the thunder of a cavalry charge!"

Ar-Pharazon frowned. "Still," he continued, "if you cannot be of service to me on the battlefield, you shall be of service to me on the home front. Despite the friendship of you and your House with the thrice-accursed Elves, there are many fools in this land who consider you to be a noble and wise man, worthy of respect. In recognition of this fact, I now appoint you as my regent, to supervise the governance of Numenor while I am absent. I trust you can see to it that the watch remains on the Palace gates, and that milk and eggs are delivered to the chefs on time?" he sneered. "Good. To ensure that you do not abuse the trust I have placed in you, I have ordered your son Elendil to accompany me on this expedition. He will be held personally accountable for your behaviour here."

"My liege!" gasped Amandil. "Elendil is my only son and heir! If anything should happen to him..."

"You will have to produce a new heir. That is, if you still can," laughed Ar-Pharazon, amused by his own wit.

Stung by the King's insult, Amandil stared at At-Pharazon with his warm brown eyes. "My son means more to me than life itself, my liege. Perhaps if you had a child of your own..."

"Speak not to me of my lack of heirs, vassal!" barked Ar-Pharazon. "In any case, it is high time your spoiled whelp had his first taste of war. Let him be blooded, and it will make a real Man of him. The first red-blooded Man amongst the Lords of Andunie in many a long year. Now, be off! I have many matters to attend to with my Admirals and Generals. Go to the Steward of Armenelos, and he will see to your administrative arrangements."

Amandil bowed, and then stalked hurriedly out of the chamber, muttering under his breath. "Ar-Pharazon the Golden...Ar-Pharazon the Madman is more like it! Does he really think to challenge one who walked the Earth before Elves and Men, who has swept Elvish armies before him like dust, who was cunning enough to evade the reach of the Valar themselves during the War of Wrath? Woe to the sons of Numenor, that this folly should come to pass!"


	3. A Prize beyond Measure

**III.) A Prize beyond Measure**

Elendil stood on the forecastle of Ar-Pharazon's flagship, shielding his blue eyes against the hot Southern Sun, and staring ahead. There, on the horizon, lay a thin dark line, the coast of Middle Earth, of Near Harad to be precise.

Elendil's face beamed with excitement. Although he was thirty-one years old, he was still young by the measure of the Numenoreans, and it was the first time he had journeyed beyond the shores of his island home. Thus far, had led a cosseted life in his father Amandil's palace at Adunie. Yet in spite of his father's misgivings, Elendil was very pleased to be summoned to war by the King. Amandil, though a great sea-captain in his youth, was a scholar by inclination. Elendil, by contrast, had always had a taste for adventure, and he lept at the opportunity to test his mettle in war, with little care for the dangers he would face.

"It appears our destination is within sight, Admiral" said Elendil as he turned to the man beside him. "The day of reckoning is at hand. Sauron the Accursed will surely send out his hordes to meet us before we draw near to his realm."

"Aye, and we'll be more than ready for them!" replied Minastir, Captain of the King's flagship, and Admiral of his Fleet. He was a massive, rough-hewn man of fifty years, near seven feet tall, with a black beard and stern blue eyes. "Our lads have been cooped up below decks for weeks, and they're champing at the bit to have a row of Orc-necks lined up for them to hew!"

"Always looking on the bright side of things, eh Admiral?" laughed Elendil. Then he looked towards the shore again, and frowned.

"What's that dark cloud moving close to the fleet?" he asked, pushing a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. A large, black could was indeed fast approaching the fleet, even though it moved against the wind.

"Strange" frowned Minastir. "It almost looks like...a flock of birds perhaps? Or..."

"Ravens" said Elendil. He gazed at them with eyes so sharp of vision as to be Elven-keen, gifts of his distant Half-Elven ancestry. "I see them clearly now. Hundreds of Ravens, circling around the vanguard of the fleet. But what are Ravens doing so far from shore?"

Minastir stared at him, and frowned.

* * *

Standing in his observatory atop the Barad-dur, Sauron could see through the eyes of his Raven-servants as they hovered above the distant Numenorean fleet. The Dark Lord was far from pleased. He had fully expected that his provocation would swiftly lead the Numenoreans into open war against him. That was his fondest hope; for, while he could not challenge the power of the Numenoreans at sea, he planned to swiftly crush their armies on land. He would draw them into an ambush, and overwhelm them with the vast hordes of Orcs and wild Men at his disposal. Then nothing would stand in the way of his dominion over the mortal lands of Earth!

Sauron, who could cast his gaze over any part of Middle Earth, was unable to see beyond its Western shores. Yet, that had not prevented him from using more mundane methods to learn all he could of Numenor, its strengths, weaknesses and ambitions. The wild Men of the South had long visited the Numenorean colony of Umbar as traders, bearing wood and ivory in exchange for iron and wool. Through his agents amongst the Southrons he had bribed and blackmailed some of the high-ranking officers and nobles stationed at Umbar, and through those officers and nobles in turn had purchased information from several particularly venal courtiers at Armenelos, where corrupt officials were as easy to find as worm-ridden apples in an orchard. Sauron's agents at Armenelos had led him to expect that Numenor would dispatch a powerful fleet against him. In this they had been correct.

But while Sauron sat secure in the Barad-dur, reveling in his own immense strength on land, these corrupt courtiers had not made clear to him the truly awesome military power that Numenor was capable of mustering, on land as well as at sea, once its wrath was incurred. "There are over a thousand ships" thought Sauron to himself, staring at the gleaming armour of the Men encamped on the decks, "and each ship has a thousand Men, professional soldiers, on board...those fools at Armenelos did not say there would be even a third as many...how can they be ambushed, when they outnumber my own forces?"

The Dark Lord began to feel traces of a gnawing doubt, such as he had not felt since his exile after the War of Wrath all those centuries ago. Had he been overconfident? Had his plans finally gone awry, after so many centuries of successes?

His agents would pay for their failure to report with complete accuracy.

But in the meantime, what was he to do?

Sauron reflected on two points. First, as long as he had the One Ring in his possession, he could tap reserves of power of which Men could not even guess. It had been so long since the Numenoreans had dealings with the Elves that it was doubtful they understood what the One Ring was, or what it could do.

And second, no matter how strong the army of Numenor, Men themselves were weak. Not merely weak and frail in body, but weak in mind and character. This he knew well. If force could not avail him against the Men of the West, then...

The beginnings of a new plan formed in Sauron's mind. Once again, he permitted himself a trace of a smile.

* * *

As the Sun began to sink into the West, Ar-Pharazon's fleet pulled into the mighty harbour of Umbar, its walls built of red sandstone, its flat, grassy shore lined here and there with date palms and fig trees. The sunlight gleamed off the red and gold sails of the fleet, and the snow white planking of the ships.

Ar-Pharazon stood on the rear deck of his flagship, and contemplated the scene. The fortress here, he reflected, had been founded long ago by the Numenoreans, and now it was their chief bastion and outpost along the South-western coast of Middle Earth. He himself had been here before on several occasions in his youth, as a General leading punitive expeditions against those wild Men from the interior of the South who, under Sauron's sway, had sought to harass Numenor's profitable trading with the wild Men of the coastlands.

From Umbar, two weeks march to the north would bring his army to the southern frontiers of Mordor. There, the mountains were low and with many passes, far easier to penetrate than the sheer wall of the Mountains of Shadow that lay along the western marches of the Black Land. A further two weeks march north would bring them, an army a million strong, to the Dark Tower, the Barad-dur itself. Then let Sauron tremble before the might of Numenor, and the wrath of Ar-Pharazon the Golden!

"Ho, Minastir!" called Ar-Pharazon.

The Admiral came rushing towards him. "My liege?"

"Send word to the Commander of our garrison at Umbar" said the King. "Let my quarters and those of my Admirals and Generals be prepared. He is also to assist in the disembarkation of our soldiers from the ships, which I estimate will take the best part of a week, given the limited number of docks available. When our army is encamped and ready on land, I will then summon a council of war."

"At once, my liege" replied Minastir, who saluted, and then turned smartly and marched towards the main deck, searching for a messenger to take a skiff to the fortress.

Ar-Pharazon turned his gaze back to his fleet, and smiled. Soon, very soon, Sauron would be vanquished. The whole of Middle Earth would then bow at his own feet!

* * *

A week later, the army of Numenor was encamped outside the fortress of Umbar, magnificent in its tents of blue and gold and white. Within the great hall of the fortress, built of gleaming white marble gilded with gold, ebony and ivory, King Ar-Pharazon had summoned his council of war. Present at the council table, which was carved out of some dark jungle hardwood, and shaped like a half-moon, were Minastir and other Officers of the fleet; the Generals of the army, flower of the nobility of Numenor; and Kimhilkad, Captian of the Garrison of Umbar. Also in attendance, though ordered by the King to remain silent throughout the council, was the youthful Elendil. Elendil was torn between impatience at the tedious deliberations of the council, and eagerness to learn the strategy they would soon employ against the Black Land.

"And what news of the movements of the Enemy, Captian Kimhilkad?" asked the King, who was ensconced in the middle of the space between the horns of the half-moon table, on a small golden throne that was kept in the fortress for his exclusive use. "Has the dog of Mordor sent any of his lackeys closer to our forces, now that we have disembarked here at Umbar? By now he must surely be aware of our presence."

"Beyond doubt he is aware of it, your Majesty" replied Kimhilkad, an aging bear of a man with a long, grey beard and hard brown eyes. "But it is odd. The last contact our scouts had with the Enemy's forces was on the day of your arrival. At that time his nearest armies were encamped a week's march north of here, beyond the Crossings of Harnen, guarding the road to the southern borders of the Black Land. Since your arrival, our scouts have not been able to locate any of Sauron's forces there. Still, I cannot imagine that the Enemy would completely abandon his southern marches, since they are the least mountainous and so the most vulnerable to invasion. At the most, it may be that they have withdrawn farther north into the western marches of Mordor, between the river Anduin and the Mountains of Shadow. That would allow them to attack our flank, as our army marches north into Mordor. In any case, the Enemy's forces have definitely not moved any closer to our armies here at Umbar."

"Doubtless the enemy's dogs are not eager to rush out and meet their doom" opined Ar-Pharazon. "Admiral Minastir!"

"Yes, my liege?"

"You will leave a small flotilla of your ships here at Umbar, to guard the harbour. Take the bulk of the fleet and sail in power north along the coast, until you reach the mouth of Anduin. Then sail north up the river, past Pelargir, and begin deploying your fleet along the Eastern banks of the Anduin, as far north as Cair Andros. Whenever you see any sign of the Enemy's forces, deploy your catapults against them. Douse them with burning pitch! We will turn the land between the river and the Mountains of Shadow into a sea of fire, from which Sauron's forces will have to flee. Meanwhile, our army shall march north under my command, to the Crossings of Harnen. We shall encamp there and observe the reaction of the Enemy. Those of the Enemy's armies that still lie across the Harnen, faced with raging fires and fleeing armies at their back, and an irresistible doom to their front, will be infected with panic. They will either flee, surrender, or if some be rash enough to fight they will be cut down by our Men! The way will then be open to us to march north, till we reach the wastes of Gorgoroth and stand before the Dark Tower."

"As you command, my liege, so it shall be done" saluted Minastir.

Ar-Pharazon, who had studiously ignored Elendil, then turned his attention to him. "Whelp! Look at your King when he is talking to you!" barked the King. Elendil's face flushed with humiliation at being addressed before the Nobles and Generals of Numenor as if he were still a boy.

"Since, despite your being past the age of thirty" said the Ar-Pharazon, "you have never proven your manhood in war, you are doubtless keen for an opportunity to do so. I will give you that opportunity. You will take command of the vanguard of our cavalry, and lead it as a scouting force to the Crossings of Harnen. You will venture north of the river, and seek out the enemy's forces. Ride as far north as the Mountains of Shadow, if you must, until you spy them from afar. When you have observed the course the Enemy's armies appear to taking - whether they are preparing to flee, to surrender, or to fight - you will then report back to me with that information."

Elendil was still burning under the shame of the King's earlier insult, yet his heart leapt with joy at the prospect before him. Command of an entire cavalry division, on a mission of great importance! He rose from his chair and saluted the King, right fist clenched in front of his left breast, in accordance with custom. "I am honoured, my liege" he said, in the loudest, deepest voice he could muster. "I shall not disappoint you."

"I trust not" replied the King, staring coolly at him, "for I will not brook failure in any of my servants. Now get you gone to the camp, and take command of your cavalry division! As for the rest of you, return to your posts. This council is adjourned. To victory! For Earendil and Numenor!" he shouted, standing up, drawing his sword and brandishing it, arm stretched out and rigid, toward the ceiling.

"To victory!" the Men before him shouted, likewise rising from their chairs and drawing their swords in reply. Then they sheathed their swords and went forth to issue commands to their soldiers.

As Elendil strode out of the room, Minastir caught up with him, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations my lad!" said Minastir. "May the Valar protect you!"

"Many thanks, Admiral" replied Elendil proudly.

"Twas the customary thing to say, to an officer newly granted his command. Still," cautioned Minastir with a grim smile, "offering my advice as an old soldier, you'd be well advised to rely first and foremost on your own sword for protection."

Elendil laughed. Yet he could not help feeling, for the first time, a trace of nervousness about his great adventure.

* * *

Eight days later found the vanguard of the Numenorean cavalry encamped some twenty miles north of the Crossings of Harnen. Riding hard, it had taken them only four days to reach the Harnen. South of the river, Elendil knew, the King's army had recently arrived, and was setting up a vast fortified encampment.

Elendil walked to the edge of his cavalry division's camp, and looked at the flat expanse of the brown, sunbaked lands about him, so unlike the lush, green mountains and plains of fair Numenor. Dry grasses stirred in the occasional hot breeze from the East, and the sweltering air shimmered with dust. A lonely falcon, far overhead, gave out a shrill cry. Strangely, although Elendil had longed for adventure abroad all his life, he now found himself missing his fair island home, though he had been parted from it for barely a month and a half.

Elendil's far-seeing eyes scanned the northern horizon. Out there, several of his lieutenants were leading small detachments of cavalry as scouts, trying to see if they could find any signs of the Enemy's forces. Elendil himself had led these scouting missions the previous three days, and had enjoyed them, but he felt it was wise to allow some action to his subordinate officers, rather than rushing to do everything himself with the eagerness of a neophyte.

His own scouting missions had turned up no sign of the Enemy's forces. For that matter, no one had seen any sign of Sauron's armies since the Numenorean fleet had disembarked at Umbar more than two weeks before. It was as if the Enemy's forces had turned tail and run at the first hint of the armada from Numenor.

"Has the Dark Lord lost his nerve?" wondered Elendil aloud, and he laughed at the thought.

"He has not lost his nerve, but he has come to his senses" said a high, clear voice behind him.

Elendil, startled, turned around, grasping for the hilt of his sword. How had anyone managed to creep up on him without his hearing or seeing them?

Before him stood a very tall Man, nearly seven feet from head to toe. He looked young, perhaps in his twenties or thirties. His eyes were a clear blue, his long hair jet black, his skin as white as marble, his lips ruby red. He was so fair of visage that he reminded Elendil of Gil-galad, High Elven-King of Lindon in the North-west of Middle Earth, whom Elendil had seen visiting his father's palace at Andunie years before. Indeed, but for the Man's round ears, he could easily be mistaken for an Elf. He was dressed in robes of white cloth, with a flowing cape of scarlet. He bore no weapon, or any adornment other than a golden ring on his right hand, inscribed with curiously glowing letters in Elvish script. Elendil briefly glanced at the script, which formed words that seemed to be barbarous gibberish, and not any proper language of Elves or Men.

Elendil was still staring in astonishment when the tall figure before him spoke again. "I see my presence here was not expected" the Man laughed, a pleasant sound like the ringing of silver bells. "But perhaps that is not surprising, is it, my young friend Elendil?"

"How do you know my name?" replied Elendil, his alarm resurging. "How did you approach me so silently, and unseen? Who are you, and where did you come from?"

"Ah, the inquisitiveness of youth" sighed the Man. "To answer your questions, I know many things, and can walk unseen and unheard if I wish. My name is Sauron of Mordor, and I am your prisoner."

Elendil's mouth dropped in astonishment. Sauron? This Man standing in front of him, who looked as fair as an Elf, and was dressed like a noble taking his leisure in one of the gardens of Armenelos, was the Dark Lord of Mordor? The Lord of Werewolves and Vampires in the days of old? The Right Hand of Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World? And he had simply strolled up and surrendered himself without even a pretence of a fight?

"You jest" replied Elendil, frowning, though he could not hide his growing fear and amazement. He wondered if he should pinch himself, to see if he was dreaming.

"It is no jest, Elendil" said the Man in his clear, ringing voice. "I have seen your fleet and your army from afar, and know that your King, Ar-Pharazon the Golden, has come to wreak his vengeance upon me. Strong are my armies, and far is my reach, but it seems that for all my long years I am not as wise as I might wish. It was folly of me to challenge the power of Numenor, the Queen of the Seas, verily, the Queen of the all the Earth should she wish to be. I have always wanted nothing more than order and harmony in my realm. I would not needlessly sacrifice my loyal servants in a futile attempt to defend myself against the invincible army of the Men of the West! For their sake, and to preserve these lands from war, I surrender myself into your power, Elendil, so that you may bear me to your King. My fate is in his hands now."

Elendil still could not believe his ears. "You surrender to me because you are concerned for the welfare of your followers?" has asked. "Are you the same Sauron who severed the head of the King's cousin, and returned it in cruel mockery? I was not under the impression that the Dark Lord of Mordor was so compassionate."

"Oh yes, poor Lord Armeneltir" replied the Man, a look of consternation crossing his fair face. "I am afraid that was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Your ambassador spoke proudly, but some of my Orc servants are not as patient as I am. They were so offended by his haughty words, they struck off his head without warning, and dragged his body away before I could stop them. They slew his bodyguard as well."

"Indeed," continued the Man, "Orcs are not the most reliable of servants. I returned what was left of the poor man to your city of Pelargir as a peace offering to your King, but it appears my actions were misinterpreted. And now His Majesty will have his revenge against me."

"Say you so?" replied Elendil. His heart warned him that the Man's words were a ridiculous pack of lies. Yet his mind, which felt dimmed as if by a fog, was beginning to believe that everything the Man had said in that clear, soothing voice was eminently reasonable and sound. Moreover, neither Elendil's heart nor his mind could resist the growing conviction that, though it seemed incredible, this truly was Sauron who stood before him, and that his desire to surrender was utterly sincere.

The Man – was he a Man? – no, the Thing smiled. "But let us not stand here and engage in idle banter all evening, my young friend" he said, in that clear, ringing voice. He thrust two pale, slender wrists out before Elendil. "Bind my hands, and take me as prisoner to your King."

As if in a dream, Elendil watched himself take a length of rope that hung from his belt, firmly but gently bind the creature's hands, and lead him into the camp...

* * *

On the golden throne that he carried with him on campaign, King Ar-Pharazon sat in his tent of cloth of gold and blue, in his camp just south of the Crossings of Harnen. The King was wearing armour of gold and silver, and was wrapped in a magnificent black cape of velvet, bearing the White Tree design of Numenor stiched on it in silk. Notwithstanding his royal dignity, he openly gloated at the scene before him.

Stretched flat on the ground, with the boot of a black-tunic'd soldier placed none too gently on the back of his slender neck, was Sauron of Mordor! The so-called Dark Lord of the World, humbled and humiliated at the feet of Ar-Pharazon the Golden, Lord of the Seas and King of Men! And all without the craven worm-heap Sauron putting-up even the pretence of a fight. He had simply surrendered to that whelp, Elendil, and then Elendil had dragged him back to the King's camp!

Initally, the King had been very skeptical. The one claiming to be Sauron had offered him a pack of lies to excuse the murder of Lord Armeneltir and his bodyguards. The weak-minded fools who purported to be the King's Generals had actually seemed to believe the excuses, although Ar-Pharazon himself was not so gullible. He knew that Sauron was a liar and a murderer, and he was highly suspicious of this supposed surrender. How did he know that the one before him was not a decoy, and that the real Sauron was not leading his armies towards the camp at that very moment?

Yet as the King listed to the prisoner apologize for his negligence, and place himself at the Royal mercy, Ar-Pharazon became increasingly convinced that this was indeed Sauron sprawled in the dust before him. For one thing, during his interrogation, the prisoner had mentioned many ancient events, and made many curious references to arcane and esoteric topics, with which only a great master of lore could have been familiar. It had soon become clear that the creature's mastery of lore far surpassed even his own, and Ar-Pharazon had one-and-a-half centuries of learning under his belt. Since all those living Men who served the Dark Tower were barbarians – and the invisible Black Riders who served the Dark One were hardly capable of impersonating living Men – the King knew that even an imposter in the service of Mordor could not possibly have gained a mastery of lore that surpassed his own, no matter how long he had been trained for such a mission.

Moreover, the one who called himself Sauron was as fair as any Man the King had ever seen, and he knew that Sauron had assumed a fair form for as long as Men could remember. In fact, the creature seemed to have uncanny powers of physical regeneration. The King's guards had flogged the creature's marble-white skin all day, and given him several severe beatings, enough to kill an ordinary Man. Each time, the creature's injuries had healed within minutes, and he had looked as fair as when he had walked into the King's camp. Clearly, no ordinary, mortal Man could accomplish such a feat.

Yet it had not been any one of these things that had led the King to conclude, beyond any doubt, that the fair-seeming one before him was Sauron himself. Ultimately, it had been the inmost promptings of his heart, as well the rational arguments of his mind, that told him that the Dark One had truly surrendered to him without a fight, and was now his prisoner.

For this surrender proved to Ar-Pharazon what he had known in his heart all along. He was indeed even more powerful than he had dared believe himself to be! Was not this surrender proof of his own omnipotence, his excellence, his destiny? Had he not always, in his heart, known himself to be so powerful, so irresistible?

Even Sauron of Mordor knew that it was true, that Ar-Pharazon the Golden was invincible! That was why the cowardly wretch had surrendered himself to the King and placed himself at his mercy, rather than making a desperate last stand! Sauron had driven the armies of the accursed Elves before him, had insulted the King from the safety of his Dark Tower, but when the King moved against him in righteous might Sauron did not dare to risk open war against the Heir of Earendil the Mariner! The foul creature must have recognized that throwing himself on the King's mercy before war began was his only hope for survival.

Ar-Pharazon had fully planned to have Sauron executed, once he had inflicted sufficient pain and humiliation on him. A sharp axe and a chopping block should get the job done, if nothing else would. Yet, for all Sauron's cowardice, there was something about the wretch, now that the King had seen him in person, which he found strangely alluring. Was it that clear, golden voice, which so fairly acknowledged Ar-Pharazon as Lord of the Seas and of the Earth? Was it the fact that a being as ancient and wise as Sauron recognized Ar-Pharazon's innate superiority, his destiny, when the lofty Elves and his own treacherous nobles would not?

The latter Ar-Pharazon had long resented in particular. He knew that they grumbled behind his back about how he had seized the throne by force, and sneered about how he had married his first cousin the Queen, against the laws of Numenor. The lopping-off of a few swollen noble heads had reduced the grumbling, but not eliminated it entirely. Behind his back, Ar-Pharazon knew, his own nobles mocked him. How he burned with anger at the thought! If only he could prove his worth to them...

He turned his attention back to the prisoner at his feet. "Guard, release your foot from the prisoner's neck!" barked the King. The guard did so at once, but Sauron did not rise. He remained sprawled face down in the dirt, the very image of defeat and humiliation.

"Dog of Mordor!" said the King. "Hear me well. You have broken the ancient law that the person of an Ambassador is inviolate. Moreover, you have murdered my cousin Armeneltir, and his bodyguards, in cold blood. For these things alone, you deserve sentence of death, and your execution would be a just thing indeed."

Sauron remained prostrate and silent. Ar-Pharazon smiled. "But a King must know when to dispense the royal prerogative of mercy, as well as administer justice. I am of a mind to offer you mercy, in spite of your crimes. Approach my throne, take my right hand, kiss my signet ring, and swear your loyalty and obedience to me, and to any heirs I may produce. Do this, and I will commute your sentence of death to imprisonment for life, which I dare say in your case is forever, in the Palace of Armenelos in Numenor."

Without fully rising, Sauron crawled towards the King's throne. Without looking up, he took the King's outstretched hand, and kissed his signet ring. Then he said "King Ar-Pharazon the Golden, Lord of the Sea and the Earth, is both wise and fair. I, Sauron of Mordor, am proud to swear fealty to him and to his heirs."

"It is done!" said the King, who stood up, exultant. "Arise, my vassal!"

Sauron stood up. The scratches and bruises from his latest beating were once again rapidly healing.

Ar-Pharazon, his silver-bearded face beaming, his blue eyes shining keenly, looked at his prisoner. Here was a prize of which the most powerful Kings of old had not even dreamed! An ancient, immortal being of legend, and one who recognized Ar-Pharazon the Golden as his lord and master! Nay, as lord and master of all the seas and lands of Earth! What nobleman of Numenor would dare to laugh at him behind his back again, after seeing the infamous Sauron of Mordor humbling himself before the King? Truly, thought Ar-Pharazon, his triumph, his revenge, would be sweet.

While the King was in his reverie, Sauron permitted the trace of a smile to cross his lips.


	4. Revelation

**IV.) Revelation **

Three years had passed since King Ar-Pharazon the Golden had dispatched his armada against Sauron, returning triumphantly with his illustrious prisoner, and without a single casualty amongst his troops. The Great Victory, as it had come to be known. The victory celebrations had lasted for an entire month. The triumphal procession had passed through every major city of Numenor. In each city Sauron, dressed in his white robe and red cape, walking on foot in front of the King's horse, and bound with golden chains, had been paraded in front of a crowd of ecstatic commoners and speechless noblemen. Ar-Pharazon, ruler over an empire that stretched across all the mortal lands, was praised as the greatest Man ever to walk the Earth. The minstrels at court sang that he even passed in reknown his illustrious ancestors, Earendil the Mariner and Elros Half-Elven.

Sauron had then been installed as a prisoner in the Palace at Armenelos. He had been allowed to keep his ring-bauble – "At least permit me this one trifle, my liege" he had said to the King – and had been issued with a suitable wardrobe. He was held in a suite of rooms in the Palace that were spacious and even sumptuous, although well-guarded. Thus Sauron, the fearsome demon of a thousand bone-chilling tales, had been reduced to a vassal of King Ar-Pharazon the Golden. Sometimes, the King would place Sauron at the foot of his golden throne, so that the nobles of his court could marvel at the King's prize, and envy his power. At other times, the King would visit Sauron in his prison-suite alone. On occasion he would gloat over Sauron, while at other times he would listen to the fair words Sauron spoke to his master the King, always in that clear, ringing voice that was a balm to the listener.

Ar-Pharazon reflected on these facts as he sat in a comfortable chair in Sauron's prison-chambers on this cool spring day. He had not felt well that morning, and though one would hardly expect a Man of nearly one-hundred and sixty years to feel youthful and spry, the King was troubled by his ailment. It troubled him, because although he was lord and master of the Seas and of the mortal lands of Earth, he had not conquered his greatest enemy; the spectre of old age and death.

"Nor, I fear, have you conquered Valinor, my liege" said Sauron, a tinge of regret in his fair voice. Sauron, who with the King's indulgence always kept up with the latest fashions of the Palace court, was dressed in a blue robe, trimmed with cloth of gold, and a shimmering red cape. As ever, his golden ring was his only adornment.

"Of course I have not conquered Valinor! It is the land of the Gods, you fool!" shouted the King, the lines on his aged face deepening as he scowled. He let out a racking cough, and pulled his golden cape more tightly around his blue robes. Being ill always put him in an especially poor humour. And how had Sauron known what he was thinking? The creature had always seemed to have an uncanny ability to read his thoughts.

"Of course it is, my liege. Forgive my foolishness. Yes, Valinor is the land of the Valarian Gods...and of the High Elves as well. In the Undying Lands, the deathless dwell in wonder and beauty forever."

The King ground his teeth and swore. "Mention not the word death!" he said. "I am in no mood to hear of it." Like many of the Numenoreans, he found the immortality of the Elves a bitter draught to swallow. He could accept that the Valar were eternal; they were older than the world itself, and had shaped the very elements of its creation. But the Elves? They were hardly different from Men in appearance, nor were they much greater in powers of mind or body than the Men of Numenor. Indeed, they were not as powerful as the Numenoreans, who had succeeded in conquering and taming Sauron where the Elves had failed.

Yet, the Elves were immortal, and Men, even the long-lived Men of Numenor, were not. It was unfair. More than unfair, thought Ar-Pharazon; it was deeply unjust. Many Men of Numenor, he knew, agreed with him; their envy of the eternal life granted to the Elves was the chief source of the estrangement between Elves and Men that had developed in recent centuries.

"I would not know of the wonder and beauty of the Und... of Valinor" said Ar-Pharazon, his voice sounding soft and weary for once. "The Valar have allowed their Elvish pets to dwell there, but they have forbidden Men from setting foot in that land. We must content ourselves with Numenor and the lands of Middle Earth to the east."

"Of course, my liege" said Sauron. "The Ban of the Valar; I have heard of it. Still my liege, I suppose you must accept the lot the Valar have apportioned to you. You are still lord and master of all the Seas and of all the lands of Earth, save Valinor alone. You are the most powerful, the most exalted Man who has ever lived. Surely these thoughts are a balm for you? Surely they shall ease your passage into the twilight, my liege?" Sauron's ever-youthful face bore every mark of sincerity and concern, and his voice was soft and sympathetic.

"Yes, yes!" snapped the King. In truth, he was not satisfied, not at all. Yes, he was ruler of all the world save the land of the Valar and the High Elves, but what of it? He had only so many years left, he knew not how many, and then he would be gone. No longer Ar-Pharazon the Golden, but Ar-Pharazon the memory. He would be another statue amongst the many statues of dead Kings that adorned the Houses of the Kings at the foot of Mount Meneltarma. Would anyone really remember his power and his glory when he was gone? Would they even care? Even if they did, which the King very much doubted, what of himself? He would no longer experience the thrill of Kingship, the bliss of power and prestige.

'_Curse the Valar!' _thought Ar-Pharazon to himself. Surely it was their doing that the Elves enjoyed eternal life, while Men had to face the certainty of death?

"And yet" offered Sauron, "not all Men have had to face death, nor have they all been banned from seeking the land of Valinor. Your own ancestor, for instance, the thrice-renowned Earendil the Mariner. The Valar permitted his passage to the Undying Lands, and as a reward for his valour, they conferred on him eternal life. To this very day, he sails the skies in his enchanted ship Vingilot, appearing to Men as the morning and evening star."

"As you well know, Earendil was half an Elf, and his wife was more than half an Elf, and she was numbered amongst the Elven people" said Ar-Pharazon. "It is because their son Elros, my ancestor, renounced his immortality to become the first King of Men that my line is mortal. His brother, Elrond Half-Elven, accepted the gift of immortality, and still he dwells at Imladris, or Rivendell as some call it, in Middle-Earth today!"

"All true, my leige" said Sauron. "Although, if I recall correctly, Earendil was counted as a Man, notwithstanding his Half-Elvish blood, just as you are a Man, even though you have Half-Elvish ancestry. The Valar did make an exception for him."

Ar-Pharazon could not deny it. "Aye, they did. As if the descendents of Earendil are not as worthy of immortality as was their ancestor."

Ar-Pharazon recalled an old story from many generations before. It was said that the Valar had heard the Men of Numenor were embittered by the fact that they did not enjoy the gift of eternal life. The Valar had sent emissaries to King Tar-Atanmir the Great, and incredibly, these emissaries had told him that death was the creator God's gift to Men! That it prevented Men from having to endure in the World for age after age, long after all joy of living was past, suffering under the ever-mounting burden of aimless years. For the Elves, they had said, were bound eternally to the World, and even if their bodies were slain, their spirits must remain forever chained to the Earth, suffering the growing weariness of aimless existence as they had when incarnate. Whereas the spirits of Men, they had said, were free - after a short time in their physical bodies they could journey beyond the Earth, indeed beyond the Circles of the World themselves. Even the Valar envied Men in this respect, the emissaries had said, for they, like the Elves, must remain in the World until the End of Time. Thus, neither Elvish immortality, nor Human mortality, were what they appeared to Men to be.

Tar-Atanamir had not believed a word of this nonsense, and neither did his descendent Ar-Pharazon. It was Tar-Atanamir who had begun the severance of ties between Numenor and the Elves of Valinor and Middle-Earth. Amongst the nobles, only those fools, the Lords of Andunie, had believed the Valar in the time of Tar-Atanamir. That dodderer Amandil and his son Elendil, it was well known, continued to believe them today. It was for this reason that they alone amongst the nobles of Numenor were still counted as Elf-friends, though a small group of commoners, who mostly dwelt at Romenna in the east of Numenor, were known to share their beliefs.

"The Valar claimed that they were powerless to change the fate of either Elves or Men, unless the creator God should wish them to" said Ar-Pharazon. "They could lengthen the span of years allotted to Men, but in the end Men must die. They said it was He, the creator God, and not them who had made an exception for Earendil in granting him eternal life. Even Earendil's exception was a sort of punishment for setting foot in Valinor, since he was made to sail the skies forever in his enchanted ship, and can never again return to the lands of Men."

"Yes, the creator God. Illuvatar, the Elves call him, though Men know him as Eru" said Sauron. He paused, and appeared thoughtful. His eyes narrowed, and he looked intently at the King. "Tell me, my liege" he asked, "it is rumoured that a few Men, such as your ancestor Earendil, and perhaps your ancestor Elros, have been fortunate enough to bear witness to the presence of the Valar, have gazed upon their very faces. Yet who has seen the face of Eru?"

"No one" said the King. "He exists beyond the bounds of space and time. So the Elves tell us."

"Do they?" asked Sauron. "Then let me ask you, my liege; if no Man has ever seen this Eru, indeed cannot see him, how do you know he exists?"

"What is this blasphemy?" cried Ar-Pharazon. Even he was shocked by such an impious query, though in truth he had paid little thought to Eru in the course of his long life.

"I merely asked a question, my liege. If you can never see this Eru, how do you know he exists?"

"We have only the word of the Elves for it" admitted Ar-Pharazon.

"And from whom did the Elves receive this word?"

"From the Valar" replied the King.

"So" said Sauron, "the Valar claim they cannot grant eternal life to Men, because Eru prevents them from so doing. And when they make an exception, such as for your ancestor Earendil, they claim it is because in that case, Eru permitted it. Yet no Man, nor even any Elf, has ever seen the slightest proof that this Eru actually exists. Curious, isn't it? And very convenient for the Valar when they wish not to answer the prayers of Men."

Ar-Pharazon was silent for some moments. Then he turned to Sauron. "And what do you think, my servant?" he asked. "You yourself once ranked amongst the chief servants of the Valar, before they cast you out from their ranks in the days when the world was young, if the ancient Elvish legends about you be true. Do you believe that Eru exists?"

Sauron stared directly at the King with his clear, blue eyes. "I have no doubt the creator God exists. He is the Lord of the Darkness, the Lord of All, who existed before the World, before there ever was a light."

"Then you know that Eru exists?" asked Ar-Pharazon.

"That name again" replied Sauron, with a frown. "I said that I believed in the creator God, the true creator God. For I have never seen this oracle Eru of the Valar. I have no reason to believe he is anything but a cipher, crafted by the Valar to justify their use of their own powers. I have only seen, and have always served, the true creator, the Lord of the Darkness."

"And who is this Lord of the Darkness?" said the King.

Sauron's voice dropped to a whisper, to ensure only Ar-Pharazon could hear. "He has been called many names, but His true name is Melkor. I am His loyal servant. The Valar are but rebels against His rule, and He will one day emerge from the Darkness, from the great Void, to put paid to them. It is for my loyalty to Him that the Valar exiled me, but ever have I served Him, and I serve Him still today."

"You speak in riddles" replied the King scornfully. "I am not unversed in Elvish lore. They called Melkor by the name of Morgoth, and the Valar expelled him from the Circles of the World three and a half thousand years ago. You were but his slave, as you are now my slave. But if this Melkor is the true creator, as you claim, then tell me this; why did he make the Elves immortal, and Men mortal?"

"He did not determine the fates of the races" replied Sauron calmly. "He left their fates in the hands of His servants, the Valar. They chose to make their Elvish favourites immortal, so they could forever enjoy their company, while leaving Men, a race for whom they care little, to face the dust and shade of the tomb. And as I said, the Valar rebelled against Melkor. For now, he dwells again in the Darkness, the element from whence He came." Sauron narrowed his eyes, and raised his palms expressively. "But the day is coming when He will return in all His might! He will punish the rebellious Valar and their Elvish pets, and well reward those Men who follow Him."

"How will he reward his followers?" asked the King, astonished, yet seized by the growing conviction that this revelation was true, that it explained all the mysteries that had been kept so well-hidden by the Elves and the Valar.

"With all their heart's desire" whispered Sauron, clasping Ar-Pharazon by the shoulders. "Even with life eternal, should they prove His truly loyal servants."

"You know this?" asked the King, shocked, and yet elated at the same time.

Sauron withdrew his embrace, and stared at Ar-Pharazon. "I speak only the truth of Melkor. I am His loyal servant. Will you serve Him, or not? Or shall I say, will you serve the Valar and their false oracle Eru, who promise you only the tomb, or Melkor, who promises you eternal life?"

For King Ar-Pharazon the Golden, there was no question of choice at all, when the right answer was so obvious. He had waited all his life for this. First, he had become master of the world, King of Men. That was only the beginning, not the end. And now... "I choose to serve Melkor" said Ar-Pharazon, his aged body trembling with fear and anticipation.

"Swear to me, as the true emissary of Melkor" said Sauron. "Take my right hand, kiss this golden ring, which represents Melkor's power, and swear that you will loyally serve Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, until the End of Time, and that you will offer unto Him any sacrifices He requires as proof of your loyalty! Swear this, fulfil your oath, and eternal life shall be yours, my King!"

The King stooped down. With his withered, aged hands, he took hold of Sauron's ever smooth, pale hand. Were not Sauron's eternal beauty and youthfulness symbolic of the good faith of Melkor's promise to his most loyal and deserving servants?

Ar-Pharazon kissed the golden ring. Then, staring up at Sauron, he said "I swear that I, Ar-Pharazon the Golden, King of Numenor, shall loyally serve Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, until the End of Time, and that I will offer unto Him any sacrifices He requires as proof of my loyalty."

Sauron's clear blue eyes gleamed with delight, and a triumphant smile appeared on his face. "It is done!"


	5. Loss and Gain

**V.) Loss and Gain**

In a clearing amidst the forested mountains near Andunie, the north-westernmost city of Numenor, two magnificent white stallions raced each other with lightning speed. One was ridden by a young man, with long brown hair and beard, and the other by a dark-haired youth, his blue eyes intent on the Beech tree they had set as a finish line. For a time, the two horses were neck in neck, but at the last moment, the one ridden by the brown-haired man surged ahead to the finish. The young man let out a whoop of glee, and slowed his horse to a trot, while the lad behind him surged forward, and then began circling the tree in a canter.

"You've bested me again, Isildur" said the dark-haired youth glumly. "Perhaps you should find a contestant more worthy of your skill, and leave me to my books and my library."

"Don't be silly, Anarion" grinned Isildur, his brown eyes gleaming with mirth. "You always take these little contests so seriously, but it's all in good fun".

"That's easy for you to say, brother. You always win" said Anarion.

"Perhaps" said Isildur. "But then I always practice, rather than rushing to the library every chance I get. I know grandfather Amandil has encouraged you in your studies, but it's good for you to get some fresh air and exercise now and again. Our father Elendil has charged me, as your older brother and a grown man of twenty-one years - five years your senior, mind - with the responsibility of seeing to it that you're raised properly."

"Has he?" grinned Anarion mischievously. "But who is raising you properly? I can't imagine what Lord Elendil, let alone Lord Amandil, would say if they were told of half of your misdeeds. That scullery maid, for instance..."

"You wouldn't!" said Isildur, face turning pale. "Especially not Lord Amandil!"

Anarion was about to reply, when a high-pitched shriek from the forest silenced him. Isildur motioned for him to remain quiet, and then listened intently.

"A child!" cried Isildur, as the voice shrieked again. "Quickly, follow me!" he called, as he galloped towards the woods, Anarion close behind him.

After a few minutes, they came upon the source of the noise, which had now settled into a mournful wail. A small, ragged girl, no more than five summers old, was crouched beneath an Oak tree, alone and obviously lost. She shrieked again when she saw Isildur and Anarion, and tried to run away, but tripped and fell to the ground.

Isildur and Anarion dismounted, and walked carefully toward the girl, trying not to alarm her. "Hush, little one" said Anarion. "We mean you no harm. We're here to help."

Still sobbing, the girl looked up at him doubtfully. Anarion noted that her dress was torn, and she was bleeding from a scrape on her left shin.

"Trust me, little one" said Anarion. "Do you want me to stop the blood from your wound?"

She nodded uncertainly. Anarion, as his grandfather Amandil had taught him, gently placed his fingertips on the wound in Elvish fashion. When he lifted them up, after a few moments, the bleeding had stopped.

"Doesn't sting any more?" asked Anarion. She nodded, staring at him with wonderment.

"Where are you parents, child?" asked Isildur. "You must have gotten separated from them somehow."

The little girl began to wail again, and it was some minutes before she quieted down, Anarion whispering gently to her. Then at length, she managed a few words.

"Only mama" she said. "And Beleg."

"Who is Beleg?" asked Isildur.

"Big brother" said the girl. "He's seven. Think's he's better, 'cause I'm only five. I'm Hareth."

"Greetings then, Hareth" said Anarion. "I'm Anarion, and this is my big brother, Isildur. Five, you say? My my, I'm sure you're much better than Beleg . The younger child is always better than the older one!" he laughed. "But where are your mother and brother, Hareth?"

The girl began to cry again. "Gone!"

"Gone where?" asked Isildur.

Hareth began trembling. She looked up at Isildur. "Bad men" she sobbed. "On horses, like you. We were picking berries in the woods, and they rode up to us. Took mama and Beleg too. Tried to take me, but I ran and slid down the hill. Hit my head on the tree. I woke up, it was dark, and they were all gone. Been alone all day today. Cried, fell asleep. Woke up, cried again, then you came."

Isildur looked at Anarion, who seemed shocked. "Kidnappers?" cried Anarion. "On the threshold of Anduine? How can there be such disorder in our lands?"

"There never has been" said Isildur grimly. "And we will see to it there never is again." He turned down to Hareth. "Tell me, child, which way did these bad men go, when they took your mama and your brother?"

"Up the hill" said the girl, pointing to the north, "to the mountain".

"Come with us, Hareth" said Isildur. "We"re going to find your mama, and your brother too."

The little girl began to cry again, but Anarion coaxed her into letting him carry her up onto his horse. Then he and Isildur slowly climbed up the hill on horseback, following Hareth's directions, until they came upon the place where the kidnapping had occurred. Isildur was a keen woodsman, and he quickly spotted the trail, left by five horses by his reckoning.

"How many men were they, Hareth?" asked Isildur. She held up all the fingers on her right hand.

"Two against five" frowned Anarion.

"Yes" said Isildur, "but then we are the grandsons of the sovereign lord of these lands, and as men each of us is the equal of any ten woodland brigands, even if they are on horseback!"

Anarion was going to ask how mere brigands managed to acquire five horses, but decided to remain quiet and follow Isildur's lead for the time being.

* * *

Isildur and Anarion followed the trail through the stands of Oak and Beech trees for several hours, until they were well up the slopes of the mountain. The trees thinned out, and they were riding over the grasses that covered the mountaintop. Then Isildur, who had inherited his father's Elven-keen vision, signaled for Anarion to stop. Pointing at the crest of the mountain, he said to his brother "Do you see that? Smoke!"

Anarion's eyes strained against the horizon. "I see nothing, brother, though I will take your word for it. Your eyes have always been better than mine."

"There is smoke" said Isildur, "coming out of one of the caverns that dot the mountaintop. It might well be the encampment of the brigands. Let us proceed carefully, but be prepared to draw your sword. If worst comes to worst, you protect the child, and I will deal with these scum myself." Anarion loosed his sword in his scabbard, while whispering to Hareth to remain quiet. She was becoming teary-eyed again, but managed to remain calm.

They rode for several minutes, and then Anarion could also see the smoke, merely a thin wisp trailing up from the mountainside. By this point Isildur could make out the forms of the men, as well as their horses. "That's strange" said Isildur. "They seem richly-dressed for brigands. Perhaps they are nobles out on a hunt, and we have been following the wrong trail. Let us ride up to them openly, and ask if they have seen any ruffians about."

As they approached the men, who were saddling and mounting their horses, Isildur could distinguish even more about them. "I recognize one of them" he said. "That is Lord Nuphkor, one of the King's Men. Those must be his retainers. I wonder what he is doing here in Andunie, when he normally dwells at Armenelos? We received no word of his coming to our lands."

By this point Nuphkor and his followers had spotted Isildur and Anarion. The King's Men were now all on horseback, but they did not advance toward the brothers, or respond to Isildur's greeting. Soon, they were near enough that Anarion could see them clearly, in front of a narrow, dark cavern entrance from which foul-smelling smoke issued forth. Isildur was riding ahead of Anarion, and he approached the men first.

"Ho there, my lord Nuphkor!" cried Isildur. "I say again, welcome to Andunie. But what brings you to these lands?"

Nuphkor, a slim, dark-bearded man of middle years with deeply tanned skin, wrapped in graceful robes of black and white wool, said nothing. He and his retainers stared at the brothers warily.

"I say yet again, Nuphkor, what brings you to these lands?" asked Isildur, his ire raised by the man's rudeness. "And what is this dreadful stench issuing from yonder encampment? We have been searching for brigands, who kidnapped this bairn's family" – Isildur gestured at the girl Anarion was carrying toward them on horseback - "and now we find you up here, smelling as if you've been engaged in burning dung, or something worse, all day."

"Hold your tongue, whelp!" snapped Nuphkor. "The Royal Steward of Armenelos has appointed me as one of his deputies. Respect is due – especially from a provincial such as yourself, who is doubtless very familiar with the stench of dung." Nuphkor's retainers snickered amongst themselves, and now stared haughtily at the brothers.

"An appointment by Sauron, lord of maggots, earns you no respect from me, Nuphkor" said Isildur coldly. More than four decades ago, before Isildur and Anarion's time, the King, without explanation, had released Sauron from his sentence of imprisonment. Even more incredibly, he had thereafter appointed him as the Royal Steward. Sauron, who had deftly employed his charm to gain popularity amongst the nobles and courtiers at Armenelos, had used his position as Steward to fill the civilian offices of state with those nobles known to be his admirers. Indeed, nowadays even the least significant court officials owed their positions to Sauron's patronage. The Lords of Andunie did not approve, and Isildur and Anarion shared their disapproval.

Nuphkor and his followers, meanwhile, glowered at Isildur. "Speak that way of the Steward again, whelp, and I will have your head decorating the battlements of the gates of Armenelos."

"It is not my head that will be decorating battlements if you do not account for your trespass on our lands, and quickly" shot back Isildur.

By this point, Anarion had arrived next to his brother. He was about to say something to try to cool the rising anger of the two men, when suddenly Hareth burst out screaming. Pointing at Nuphkor, she cried "Mama! You took Mama and Beleg! Bring them back! I want Mama!"

Nuphkor stared at the howling child, and turned pale. His followers, equally ashen-faced, remained silent. "What are you saying, Hareth?" asked Anarion quietly. "These aren't brigands, they're from His Majesty's court, from far away Armenelos."

"They took Mama!" sobbed the girl, still pointing at them. "Bring her back!" Then she started to sob uncontrollably, and Anarion tried to comfort her. The King's Men remained silent.

Isildur stared grimly at Nuphkor and his followers. "Well, what of it?" he asked. "This bairn says that you stole away her mother and brother. Given that we followed the kidnappers' trail to your encampment, and that you refuse to account for your trespass on our lands, I'm inclined to believe her. What have you done with them?"

"Burned them as firewood" sneered one of the courtiers, and Hareth started to howl again.

Nuphkor swiftly cuffed the man on the head. "Silence you fool!" he snapped. "This matter has become far too grave for you to indulge in crude jests." Then he turned to Isildur. "How dare you!" he said coldly. "I am a deputy of the Royal Steward, and you dare to accuse me of kidnapping and brigandage!"

Anarion, his face increasingly pale, stared at Nuphkor. "Brother" he said to Isildur, "have you spent so much time on horseback that you never listen to the news and rumors of this land? Women and children have disappeared from many places, though never before from Andunie, and often smoke is seen rising from a mountaintop nearby. Often the King's Men are seen nearby too. And what of the awful stench arising from yonder fire? What fuel could leave such a stink? Perhaps Nuphkor's lackey spoke the truth, when he said....what he said...I had at first assumed that mere brigands were behind this kidnapping, though I did not understand how common ruffians could afford their own horses...but what if..."

With a strangled cry, Nuphkor spurred his horse, drawing his sword on Anarion. Anarion pulled back, shielding Hareth with his body, while drawing his sword to defend himself. But Isildur intervened, knocking Nuphkor's sword out of his hand with a swift parry by his own blade, and then clubbing Nuphkor on the side of the head with his blade's pommel. Nuphkor was thrown off his horse, and crashed to the ground. Both brothers pointed their swords against the now drawn swords of the four horsemen, who faced off at them warily. Hareth was now silent, too terrified to speak.

At length, Isildur broke the silence. "Were it not for this bairn, I would slay all of you here and now. But I would not have her witness such bloodshed. Take this filth" he said, gesturing with his sword at Nuphkor, "and get you gone from our lands. If any of you return here again, I will kill you myself."

Without a word, one of the King's Men dismounted, lifted-up the still-stunned Nuphkor, draped him over his horse, and secured him to it with a length of rope. He remounted, took Nuphkor's horse by its reins, and led it to the East, in the direction of Armenelos. His three companions followed him, but not before one of them turned back to the brothers and addressed them.

"You will pay for this insult, whelps" said the man, a scowl marring his sallow face. "Lord Sauron will hear of it, and he does not forgive or forget his enemies."

"It is not Sauron, but the King who is sovereign in these lands" replied Isildur. "My father Elendil and grandfather Amandil are his kinsmen, even if distant, and the King will listen when they tell him what has passed here today."

The courtiers laughed mockingly at the brothers, and then turned and rode hard for Armenelos. Isildur and Anarion stared grimly at each other, and then turned their mounts and rode towards their grandfather's palace at Andunie.

As they left the grassy uplands, and descended into the forest, the Sun began to set in the West. The brothers quickened their pace, for a chill was in the air, and the lengthening shadows under the trees struck them as oddly menacing. They felt eager to find themselves once again behind thick walls, and in front of the comforting glow of a warm fireplace.

Anarion felt sorrow as he looked down at the little girl they had rescued. He and Isildur had themselves lost their mother to illness when they were children. "Peace, Hareth" said Anarion, for she had started to cry again. "Soon you will be safe. No one can harm you within the palace of Andunie. Not even Sauron himself."

* * *

One month after his sons' confrontation with Nuphkor, Elendil, son of Amandil, stood on the balcony of the highest tower at his father's palace at Andunie, and reflected on how their current plight had come to pass.

Forty-eight years ago, King Ar-Pharazon had returned triumphant, bearing the Dark Lord Sauron as his prize. Amandil had feared no good would come from allowing Sauron onto the soil of fair Numenor as a prisoner, where he could never have come as a conqueror. Yet, he had not dared to express his fears to the King, who was monumentally proud of demonstrating to everyone that Sauron was his vassal. The King seemed to take this as a token of his own greatness.

Initially, Ar-Pharazon had simply paraded Sauron as a trophy, the spoils of war. But three years after the so-called Great Victory, the King's behaviour toward Sauron had changed so abruptly that Elendil had begun to wonder if his father were right, that Ar-Pharazon, as Amandil whispered, was indeed mad, and was becoming ever more mad under the cloying flattery of Sauron. For Ar-Pharazon had announced that henceforth, Sauron was no longer a prisoner. Having proved his loyalty, he would be the King's only counselor, and the new Royal Steward of Armenelos, with power over the administration of the Royal Palace and of the King's estates.

In the several decades since then, Sauron's influence had grown rapidly, both within the walls of Armenelos and without. All agreed that his voice was so fair, and the words he spoke so noble and just, that they could not help but agree to his requests – or his commands – when they were in his presence, even where his office gave him no authority over them.

At first, Sauron's Stewardship seemed to have done some good for Numenor. He had made a point of bringing order to the chaotic civil administration, and had executed several high-ranking officials whose corruption was particularly noteworthy.

But then, after some years, things began to take a turn for the worst, at least in the opinion of Amandil and Elendil. Always with the King's approval, Sauron had implemented many new laws, and made his own approval necessary for so many routine activities that one could scarcely ship a wagon-load of apples from one side of Numenor to the other without Sauron's permission. No vital business could be conducted anywhere in the realm without first consulting with Sauron. Many of the old officals and King's Counselors, such as Amandil, were dismissed, while others died mysteriously. They were replaced by that party of Ar-Pharazon's loyalists known as the King's Men. Since then, as rules and laws multiplied, so did corruption aimed at avoiding them, until there was even more graft, petty theft, and resentment amongst the Numenoreans than before.

Worse than this, there were some who whispered dark rumours about the King's Men, and even the King himself, and their relationship to Sauron. Whispers and chants would be heard from dark catacombs in the night, it was said, acrid smoke would rise to the heavens from lonely caverns and mountaintops, and always in the morning after a woman or a child or two would be missing. Those who sought to make inquiries concerning these disappearances would sometimes be silenced with gold, and sometimes through more direct methods.

Despite this, one month ago Elendil, with the consent of his father Amandil, had sought an investigation into the kidnapping of a woman and child of Andunie, which had been reported by Isildur and Anarion. Elendil had formally requested that the King launch a criminal inquiry, naming Lord Nuphkor and his retainers as suspects.

However, it appeared that Sauron had decided to turn the incident involving Nuphkor into a trap, and that Elendil had taken the bait. This very morning, a messenger sent from Sauron, accompanied by a large party of heavily armed Royal Household Guards from Armenelos, had delivered to them an order, signed and sealed by King Ar-Pharazon himself. That order informed the Lords of Andunie that while they might still have the hereditary right to draw income from their ancestral lands, they would no longer be permitted to dwell in them!

"For" said the King's Herald, with a smirk on his brown-bearded face, "it is well known that the Lords of Andunie are so-called Elf-friends, even though contact between the King's subjects and the Elves has been discouraged since the days Tar-Atanamir, and was formally proscribed by King Ar-Pharazon's grandfather Ar-Gimilzor. Yet now we find you making slanderous allegations against some of the King's most loyal servants, handpicked for their positions by the King's trusted councilor and Steward, Sauron the Wise. Clearly, we see at work the pernicious influence of the Elves, who through you, their puppets, seek to undermine the administration of King Ar-Pharazon. Nor is it to be wondered at that you are so easily influenced by the Elves, when you live so close to them; for it is well known that on a clear day, the White Tower of the pestilential Elven city of Avallone can be seen from the highest tower of Andunie, located as it is in the extreme West of Numenor. So, by order of the King, you and your heirs are hereby banished forthwith from the province of Andunie. You shall instead take up residence at the palace of Romenna. There, in the East of Numenor, you will be further from your Elvish masters, and less capable of doing mischief."

And that was that. The King had spoken, and now Elendil, and his father Amandil, and his sons Isildur and Anarion, had no choice but to depart Andunie, the home of their ancestors for more than three thousand years, for distant Romenna in the East. Romenna was chiefly noted as a haven for those commoners who still thought of themselves as Faithful to the Valar and the ancient tradition of Elf-friendship. The Lords of Andunie had always been on friendly terms with them, even as they had loyally served the Royal House at Armenelos, which had grown ever more hostile to the Elves over the years. Now, it appeared that the King – no doubt at Sauron's urging – wished all of the Elf-friends of Numenor to be restricted to Romenna, presumably so their influence could be contained within that small city alone.

Amandil had wept when he received the news, but acknowledged there was no choice under the laws of Numenor except to comply with the King's command. To do otherwise would make them outlaws, whose lives and property would be forfeit. Isildur and Anarion were outraged; Isildur had to be physically restrained to prevent him from assaulting the King's Herald.

Reflecting on the day's events, Elendil sighed, and brushed a lock of hair away from his blue eyes. He did not look half of his seventy-nine years, but today he felt old. In truth, he thought to himself, things were the opposite of the accusations. Although the Lords of Andunie were styled Elf-friends, it had been a good seventy years since they last had any contact with the Elves of Middle Earth, and it had been more than a century since they had received a visit from the High Elves of Tol Eressea. Yet, even though his family faced exile from their homeland on the pretext of Elf-friendship, Elendil now felt strongly tempted to seek out the Elves himself. Perhaps they could offer counsel to the Lords of Andunie on how best to combat Sauron's influence over the King.

Elendil could not seek out the Elves of Eressea or Valinor, for the Ban of the Valar prevented him from journeying to the Undying Lands. But if it could be done in secret, he could visit the Elves of Middle Earth. Erenion Gil-galad, High-Elven King of Lindon, had long been a loyal friend to the Lords of Andunie. His lands were one of the few parts of Middle Earth not under the control of Ar-Pharazon. In fact, now that Elendil and his family had to live in Romenna, they would be closer to Lindon than they had been in Andunie. Gil-galad was as wise as he was ancient, and his counsel would surely be of the utmost value. When the time was right, concluded Elendil, a stealthy trip to Lindon would be in order.

Elendil stroked his beard, and looked down from the balcony to the palace courtyard below. He saw his servants, under the watchful eye of some of the black-tunic'd Royal Household Guardsmen, busily loading his family's possessions into carts. Beyond the white marble walls of the palace, the citizens of Andunie were in mourning. Though they did not have the reputation for Elf-friendship of the citizens of Romenna, most of the inhabitants of Andunie still loved their lords, particularly Amandil, and remained loyal to them. The citizens, their faces marked with despair and disbelief, had left their fair houses of whitewashed stone trimmed with turquoise, and filled the broad streets of the city. Although a large party of Royal Household Guardsmen kept close watch on them, to prevent them from rioting, many had publicly vowed to follow their lords all the way to Romenna. Amandil and Elendil had not discouraged them, for they sensed that the more citizens who openly supported them, the less in danger they were of being directly harmed by Sauron and the King. The greatest danger for the Lords of Andunie lay in isolation from the people and loss of their support, for then they could be all the more easily dispatched, should Sauron wish it and the King agree.

Sighing, Elendil took one last look from the balcony to the West, where the Sun was setting in a blaze of crimson over the harbour of Andunie, tinting Western Sea with a rosy glow. There, for the last time, he could dimly see a faint streak on the horizon, with a beacon of light issuing from it; the White Tower of deathless Avallone on Tol Eressea. He stared at it, so near and yet so far, for many minutes. Then, he turned and looked to the East where, beyond the mountains, the sky had grown dark.

How fitting, thought Elendil. The Shadow from the East had already brought twilight to Numenor. He only prayed that it would not bring nightfall.

* * *

Several months after the move to Romenna, and with his father's blessing, Elendil took a handful of trusted servants on a skiff, and departed from the pier at dawn. He first tacked eastward, so that it would appear, if the King's spies were watching, that the ship was headed for Pelargir, which had long had close ties to the city of Romenna. Once out of sight of land, he then set a course for the North, and sailed for several weeks over rough seas to the land of Lindon, in the far North-west of Middle Earth.

Lindon, the land between the Blue Mountains and the Western Sea, was all that was left of Beleriand, the foremost land of the Elves of Middle Earth during the Elder Days. Beleriand had drowned beneath the waves following the War of Wrath at the end of the First Age, but those Elves who had survived the cataclysm still dwelt in its sole remnant. Lindon itself had been split in two by the formation of the Gulf of Lune during the inundation of Beleriand. In the South was Harlindon, home of the Gray Elves and Green Elves, who had lived in Beleriand from the earliest ages of the Elder Days. In the North was Forlindon, home of most of the Noldorin High Elves of Middle Earth, those who had chosen to remain in exile for a time rather than return to Valinor. It was to Forlond that Elendil was bound, for there the High Elven King Erenion, more commonly known as Gil-galad, made his dwelling.

As his ship sailed within sight of land, Elendil saw a beacon around which were clustered several spires and towers of white marble. Surrounding it were a number of houses of wood, carved elaborately in the intricate style of the Green Elves, some of whose number lived in Forlond and acted as servants for the High King. The dense forests of Middle Earth stretched beyond. At the pier were docked several of the White Swan ships of the Falathrim Sea Elves, some of whom lived on the Eastern edge of the Gulf of Lune at Mithond, known to Men as the Grey Havens, under their lord Cirdan. Elendil sailed his own ship past these, and moved closer to an open spot on the pier, while unfurling the banner of the Lords of Andunie from the mast. As his ship approached the shore, several Green Elves, their tawny hair blown to and fro with the sea-breeze, tossed mooring ropes to his crew so that they could secure the ship. When all was ready, his crew lowered the gang-plank, and Elendil descended to the pier.

Elendil was just about to introduce himself to the Elves, when the sharp, clear sound of silver trumpets interrupted. As he looked to his right, towards land, a party of Elves approached him, clad in the blue and golden robes of the Noldor. In the centre of the group, wearing a thin circlet of gold over his long black hair, was an especially tall Elf who could be none other than High King Gil-galad himself.

Elendil stood to attention and saluted the Elf-lord, as he had been taught to salute royalty in his youth. The Green Elves on the pier laughed at him, a sound like the tinkling of crystal glasses. Gil-galad himself smiled, and strode toward him. "Hail Elf-friend!" said he, his deep blue eyes twinkling with mirth and good humour. "Your salute is a gracious gesture, but it is not needed. I may be High King, but we Elves and Elf-friends greet each other simply and without formality. Not for us are the elaborate rituals of fair Numenor!"

"_Elen sila lumenn omentielvo"_ replied Elendil, "A star shines upon the hour of our meeting." This was the traditional greeting of the High Elves to each other.

"That's better!" laughed Gil-galad. "The Lords of Andunie and their kin are always welcome here in Lindon, though you have not visited us for many a long year. For my part, it was at least seventy years ago that I last visited Numenor, brief and secret as my stay was. If I am not mistaken, you must be Elendil, son of Lord Amandil. When last we met, you were but a boy. It seems you have grown to manhood in the twinkling of an eye."

"Aye, I am now a Man of nearly eighty years of age, although that seems longer than the twinkling of an eye to me" replied Elendil gravely.

Gil-galad looked at Elendil for a few moments, and then his tone became more somber. "You must be weary, friend Elendil, after your long journey over the Sea from distant Numenor. But when you are ready, we shall discuss the business that has brought you here. For though I always welcome the company of the Lords of Andunie, I confess that I am aware your visit here is not entirely to reacquaint yourself with old friends."

Gil-galad then smiled again. "But enough of such matters. You are our guests! Please, invite your crew onto the pier, and they shall accompany us to my house. We shall lead you to your chambers, to wash and refresh yourself. Then, let us eat and be merry, and we shall sing to you the songs of old!"

* * *

That evening had passed very pleasantly. Elendil did not remember it clearly, for time spent amongst the Elves seemed to pass as if in a dream. There was wine better than any nectar, and white bread sweet as if with honey, and curious fruits ripe and bountiful. There was laughter, and music of the lyre, flute and harp, and singing in the old tongues of Elves of fair voices, which told of the ancient days when there was only starlight and forest, laughing streams and the singing sea, and all manner of wondrous things that had long since passed away.

Elendil slept deeply in his soft bed that night, and dreamed many curious things, as if the old songs had taken shape in his mind. The next morning, Elendil breakfasted lightly on more of the sweetened bread, which seemed very filling, and strolled for a time amongst the towers and houses of Forlond, listening to the laughter of fair Elvish voices, and admiring the beauty of comely Elvish maidens. Maidens indeed, he thought to himself. They were doubtless older than his great grandmother's grandmother!

Elendil felt at peace as he had not since his boyhood. Yet, he knew that he could not afford to wander aimlessly along the paths of serene Forlond. To the Elves, the passing of days seemed of no more consequence than the falling of leaves in the autumn. But from his standpoint as a mortal, time was pressing, and his duty was to seek out Gil-galad and ask his counsel.

He found Gil-galad waiting for him in the garden behind his house. The house was low, rambling building of marble inlaid with gemstones, cut with oval windows and doors, and fronted by several graceful towers topped by conical roofs of smooth marble. If it was not as grand as one of the palaces of Numenor, it was in truth more soothing to the eye and homelike to the heart. Gil-galad himself sat in an elaborately carved chair of wood by a silver fountain, its waters laughing cheerfully, and set amidst bright green grass and delicate flowers of blue, gold and white. Ancient trees of smooth grey bark and dark green leaves offered shade from the light of the Sun. There was a second empty chair by the fountain, and Gil-galad motioned for Elendil to be seated.

"How goes it with you this day, friend Elendil?" asked the High King.

"I have not had such a fair day for many years, friend Gil-galad" replied Elendil wistfully. "I should have paid a visit to your people long ago. How I wish my sons could see the dwellings and hear the songs of the Elves in their own lands!"

"I trust they shall someday," laughed Gil-galad. "They shall learn that for all the wonders of Numenor, Middle Earth is not without its charms."

But when his laughter had subsided, the High King's mood darkened, and he stared intently at Elendil. "I shall speak plainly, my young friend" said Gil-galad. "I sense that all is not well with you. Your heart is sorely troubled. I believe I know why you have sought me out, yet I would hear of it in your own words. Of what would you ask my counsel?"

Elendil frowned. "All is not well with Numenor. It has not been since the Dark One first tainted our fair isle with his foul presence nearly five decades ago, though things have grown markedly worse of late."

Gil-galad also frowned at the mention of the Enemy. "It has been long since we have had regular tidings from Numenor, yet you can be sure that we Elves are aware of this folly. The Dark One should never have been allowed to set foot off Middle Earth. It is even said that your King made Sauron his trusted councilor. Yet, for my part. I hoped this to be an absurd tale dreamed up by some traveler in his cups. Can it be true?"

"All too true. And that is the least of it." Elendil explained to Gil-galad in some detail the course of events in Numenor over the decades since Sauron had become the King's Steward, culminating in the exile of the Lords of Andunie to Romenna.

"Sauron's arm has grown long indeed if he can place such a yoke on a family that is hardly less royal than that of the King" said Gil-galad. "Are not the Lords of Andunie also the heirs of Earendil and Elros, no less than those of the King's own line?"

"We are", replied Elendil. "What I cannot understand is how the King countenances such folly. Even before he dispatched his armada against Sauron, my father, Amandil, had long held that the King was mad. Still, mad or no, Ar-Pharazon always had an iron will, and no Man could bend it. Yet now it seems almost as if he has gone from being Sauron's master to being his puppet. Sauron has only to will a thing so, and the King's Seal is affixed to it."

"Sauron is not a Man" replied Gil-galad gravely. "He is so ancient that the oldest of Elves is but a child beside him. Moreover, he now has his accursed Ring, which has greatly magnified his own power, and increased his hold over all the free peoples of the world. We Elves, who are very old as Men measure such things, are skilled in all forms of lore, and yet even we were long deceived by the wiles of Sauron. Woe to the day that Celebrimbor of Eregion ever invited Annatar, Giver of Gifts inside his threshold! Nor could we withstand the onslaught of Sauron once he revealed himself. Many of the Elvish people have been slain, and those few of us still left in Middle Earth have been driven back to refuges such as Forlond, islands of peace in a sea of war. How then could your King, a mortal Man, hope to resist the will of Sauron, and the power of the One Ring?"

"What is this One Ring you speak of?" asked Elendil.

Gil-galad appeared astonished. "Have you not heard the tale of the Rings of Power, and how the folly of the Elves of Eregion made possible Sauron's rise as the new Dark Lord? I thought the chroniclers and historians of Numenor were unsurpassed in all the world."

"Perhaps my father has heard of it" admitted Elendil, "for he has always been a scholar by inclination, notwithstanding that he was also a great sea-captain in his youth. Still, I have never heard him mention it. And I fear that I have been too busy administering his estates to spend much time in the old libraries. What is more, the education afforded to the noble children of Numenor by the royal tutors sent from Armenelos has had nothing to say of the Elves since the days of Tar-Atanamir, and says little of them before that. Many of the old records concerning the Elves and our friendship with them were destroyed by Ar-Pharazon's grandfather, Ar-Gimilzor."

Gil-galad then told Elendil the tale of the Rings of Power, and how the One Ring had allowed Sauron to gain mastery over nearly the whole of Middle Earth.

"So you see," concluded Gil-galad "the trap that Sauron set for all of us. The Seven Rings of the Dwarves proved of little use to him, for Dwarves are mightily stubborn, and have a will of adamant. When they realized the real purpose of their Rings was to enslave them, they simply threw them away, though whether the Seven have been lost in caverns, or eaten by Dragons, or reclaimed by servants of the Dark Lord, I know not."

"But" he continued, "the Nine Rings of Men were all too successful in their purpose. Great Kings and Lords of Men accepted them, for Sauron, disguised as Annatar, had promised them eternal life and awesome power if they became Ringbearers. And for awhile it appeared so. Yet the days of Men are numbered, and for them to live beyond their appointed time, their bodies and spirits must be stretched ever thinner, until they are no longer visible to mortal eyes. So it was with these nine wretches; they were promised eternal life and power, yet now they are but Sauron's undead slaves, bound forever to his will. Under their leader, one known as the Witch King, they are called the Nazgûl in the Black Speech of Mordor, though in our tongue they are known as the Ulari."

"The Ulari" shuddered Elendil, "the Ringwraiths as the Men of Middle Earth call them, though I did not enquire what rings had to do with them. I have certainly heard of _them_, though only today did I learn their true origins."

"I am not surprised you have heard of the Black Riders" said Gil-galad, "for tales of their fell deeds have surely reached even the blessed shores of holy Valinor."

"And what of the Three Rings of the Elves" asked Elendil. "Surely you could have used them against Sauron?"

Gil-galad sighed. "We dared not. The Three Rings are implements of peace, not weapons of war. They are meant to dull the corrosive effects of time, to inspire the heart and to mend the body and sooth the spirit. Moreover, though Sauron never laid hands on them, for they were forged by Celebrimbor alone, the Three Rings are still bound to the power of the One. If we were to put on the Three Rings, we would be revealed to Sauron as long as he bears the One on his own hand. He would be able to read all our thoughts, and all our secrets, and we would have no hope of besting him."

"So the Three were safely hidden amongst our people," continued Gil-galad. "We tried to resist Sauron through war, but we Elves had passed the peak of our power in these lands even before the War of Wrath was fought, ages ago. There were too few of us to resist the onslaught of Sauron's vast hordes of Orcs, and now we are even fewer in number. After Sauron put Celebrimbor and the Elves of Eregion to the sword, many of our people fled over the Western Sea to Valinor. Those of us who remain in Middle Earth now dwell only in Lindon, or live in havens such as Lord Elrond's realm of Imladris, or Queen Galadriel's realm of Lothlorien, or King Thranduil's Woodland Realm, which lies in the Greenwood east of Anduin. We can barely defend our own realms, let alone mount an offensive against Sauron. Your own Kings, I am sad to say, have long forsaken their friendship with us, and so we cannot look to Men for aid." Elendil turned his gaze to the ground, ashamed to acknowledge the truth of Gil-galad's words. "Even the Dwarves will not help us" continued Gil-galad, "for they blamed the Elves of Eregion for Sauron's rise to power - I cannot say they are wrong in that – and now they will not give aid to any Elf. We have pleaded for them to help us in our time of need, but to no avail - their stony hearts remained utterly unmoved."

"I don't understand" frowned Elendil. "If Sauron is so immensely powerful, not only through his own dark powers, but because of this One Ring of his, why did he surrender to the expedition of Ar-Pharazon forty-eight years ago, without even a pretence of defending himself? Why did he meekly accept his status as a prisoner? Why does he still appear to serve the King today, even if he is only a servant in name?"

"I have given much thought to those questions ever since I first heard news of Sauron's apparent surrender to your King," said Gil-galad darkly. "I see two points to consider. First, while we Elves are few, and were badly outnumbered, the armies of the Men of Numenor are vast beyond counting, and they are far better soldiers than Orcs or wild Men. Moreover, Sauron had the element of surprise against us, and we were from the first on the defensive, whereas Numenor took the offensive against Mordor. If we leave aside the power of Sauron and his Ring, it is more than likely that open war would have resulted in the annihilation of Sauron's armies, and that he would have found himself besieged in the Barad-dur with the King's forces encamped in the plain of Gorgoroth below. By avoiding open war, Sauron has preserved his armies, which were never disbanded, although they have withdrawn into the depths of Mordor and kept a low profile. Indeed, our scouts tell us that since Sauron's departure, his realm of Mordor has been ruled by his lieutenants the Ulari and their Witch King. Ar-Pharazon apparently thinks he holds Sauron hostage for the behaviour of his followers in Middle Earth, and the Numenoreans, in their greed for metals and timber, have not peered over the walls of Mordor, which they deem but a barren wasteland. Thus, Sauron's subterfuge has not been detected by Numenor, and his armies have waxed even stronger in his absence, waiting patiently for the day when they are unleashed at his command."

"However, that is not a complete explanation," continued Gil-galad. "Sauron is powerful, and his Ring makes him even more so. His presence in battle, with the assistance of the Ulari, might well have allowed his forces to have fought the armies of Numenor to a stalemate. Sauron, of course, will not settle for a stalemate – he seeks absolute dominion. That leads to the second point."

"Which is?"

"That if Sauron felt he could not annihilate the Men of the West by force, perhaps he felt he could bring about their doom through fraud."

"Fraud?" asked Elendil. "You mean a stratagem?"

"Yes," replied Gil-galad. "A far more ambitious strategem, I deem, than merely posing as a hostage, while building up his armies in secret. Tell me, have you seen or spoken with Sauron himself?"

"Twice, though both times were long ago. I regret to say it was to me that he surrendered himself, near the Crossings of Harnen. I saw him a second time when he was paraded through Andunie as a prisoner, as part of the victory celebrations. I recall that on both occasions he appeared wondrous fair. Indeed, I even recall that both times, he had a curious golden ring on his right hand, though I paid it little heed on either occasion."

"And what of his voice?" asked Gil-galad.

"When I first met him" said Elendil, "he spoke to me at some length about his intention to surrender, and his reasons for so doing. The second time I saw him, he spoke to us briefly, offering apologies for his many crimes, and repeating how he had sworn service and loyalty to the King. His voice was very fair-seeming, very soothing to listen to..."

"Even fairer than the voice of an Elven King?" asked Gil-galad, with a grim smile.

Elendil hesitated. "I mean you no offence" he said, "but yes, even fairer than that, if such a thing is possible. My heart initially doubted his words, yet it soon did not enter my mind to question anything he said, it all seemed so wise and reasonable. On both occasions, it was only some time after his departure that I thought back upon his words, and again doubted their sincerity."

"Then you have tasted the power of the One Ring," said Gil-galad. "For Sauron, in his present fair guise as Annatar at least, has always been charming and persuasive – witness how he deceived the Elves of Eregion before he forged the One Ring. And the Ring greatly magnifies his power. Even an Elven Lord well versed in lore would have difficulty resisting the power of Sauron's voice as long as he bears his Ring. And your King...no matter how strong his will, I fear he may have no hope of resisting Sauron's voice at all."

"I have noted that all of Sauron's commands bear the King's Seal," frowned Elendil. "Though I had hoped that, at least for many issues beneath the King's attention, Sauron was merely taking liberties with his role as Steward, which makes him Guardian of the Seal. Yet you think Ar-Pharazon, who has long appeared somehow beholden to Sauron, is in truth nothing more than the Dark One's puppet?" Elendil's face turned pale, as he contemplated the appalling implications.

"I fear so", replied Gil-galad. "It would not seem thus in your King's mind, but that only makes Sauron's grip on him all the firmer. My belief, now that I have learned of all that has passed in Numenor, within the last few years in particular, is that Sauron declined war against Numenor from the outside in favour of war against Numenor from the inside. Hence his apparent surrender, which was but a ruse. Once inside Numenor, he bided his time, and then struck at the King's heart and mind when the moment seemed opportune. Ensconced at your King's right hand, bending the King's will to his own, there is no end to the mischief he can make for the Numenoreans."

"And then what of these dark rumours?" shuddered Elendil. "These secret meetings? The disappearances of women and children? It was my investigation of an incident connected to these rumours that Sauron, acting through the King, used as a pretext for exiling my family to Romenna..."

Gil-galad appeared very grave. "I greatly fear the evil into which Sauron may lead Numenor. It appears he is corrupting not only your King, but his officials as well, by immersing them in who knows what dark sorcery. I know that in the Elder Days, many Men and Elves unfortunate enough to have been captured by Sauron, or Gorthaur the Torturer as we then called him, were offered up as living sacrifices to the Great Enemy. The smoke of their burning was said to be a balm to foul Morgoth."

As Gil-galad pronounced that name, the Sun seemed to darken for a moment, and there was a sudden chill in the air.

Elendil turned pale at the mention of Morgoth Bauglir, the Great Enemy, whose memory cast a dark shadow over all the World, even though he had long since been expelled from it. "But such vile corruption, at the very pinnacles of power in Numenor...if the King and all his high officials, including the many nobles who serve in office at Armenelos, are immersed in dark sorcery...what is to become of Numenor? What can Men do against the power of such ancient evil, when even the Elves could not stand against it?"

Gil-galad was silent for a long time, staring into the sparkling waters of the silver fountain. Then he stared grimly at Elendil. "I do not have any simple answers for Numenor's plight. Now that I have heard of all that has transpired there, I realize the situation is even worse than I had feared. Numenor has become like a mighty, ancient Oak; impregnable from the outside, but eaten away by rot and corruption from within. This I deem: Sauron will do far greater evil than he has already done to the Men of the West. If the King, and the major part of his nobles and officials at court, have become the agents of evil, have even taken up the worship of the Great Enemy as I fear, then it will not be long before their madness sinks down to the common people of Numenor. There may be little time before the whole land is awash in corruption and bloodshed."

"But that cannot be!" cried Elendil. "Is Numenor, The Land of the Star, nigh to holy Valinor, to fall into darkness? Is it to become a bastion for the worship of Morgoth, a land where innocents are slain as human sacrifices to evil incarnate...it is unthinkable!"

"My friend," said Gil-galad "we live in evil times. Who is to say that the darkness cannot blot out the light? You must acknowledge the power of the darkness, and then think on how to combat it, if your people are to have any hope."

"I cannot see hope in what you describe" said Elendil, despondently. "What are we to do?"

"First" said Gil-galad sternly, "you must not sink into fear and despair, for those have ever been amongst the chief weapons of the Enemy. Second, I think you are underestimating your own power. You and your family are not ordinary Men; you are the Lords of Andunie, and so the descendents of Earendil and Elros, as much as is your fallen King. The people know this. Your father Amandil has long been renowned for his nobility of spirit and his wisdom, which are great even as Elves measure such things. Let your father, let your House, become a beacon in the darkness. If you must now live in Romenna, then let Romenna become a haven and a sanctuary for those Men of Numenor who wish no part of the evil of Sauron and the folly of their King. Let them join the Faithful ones who already dwell there. I will not say that you should openly denounce Sauron and the King, for you could not resist the King's armies if they were sent against you. But your father Amandil and all those of your House, can lead by their example through their wisdom and nobility of conduct. I say again, do not underestimate your own power. Is not your own name Elendil, that is, Elf-friend? Let the Elendili, those Men of Numenor who renounce the darkness and are still faithful to the light, flock to the banner of the Lords of Andunie! Let your House provide an example, and hope, to those who have fallen under the Shadow from the East."

Elendil was spellbound. He stared at Gil-galad with awe. "By the Valar" he said, "apt it is that you are deemed _High_ King, for your courage and vision are greater than that which any hereditary title of King could bestow. You are right, friend Gil-galad. I shall tell my father what has passed between us, and he and I, and my sons, and all those attached to my House, shall strive our utmost to be a beacon in the darkness. The light shall not perish utterly from the land of Numenor, as long as Men of my House still dwell there!" He grasped the High King's hands. "I am forever in your debt, my friend!"

"Do not say that" laughed Gil-galad, his good humor suddenly restored, "for I have gifts to give you apart from my advice, and I would not wish you to be even deeper in my debt! Rise and follow, Elf-friend!"

Gil-galad strode from the garden into his house, and Elendil followed him. They climbed the winding marble stairs of a tower, and came to a great door of oak. Gil-galad removed a key from his robes, and unlocked the door. "Come in, my friend" said he, "this is my study, and in here I keep many treasures." Elendil walked into the room, the floor and ceiling of which were adorned with cut and polished gemstones, offset by walls of gleaming white marble, cut with several windows so as to let in the light of the Sun and the Moon. There were many manuscripts and scrolls on shelves lining the spaces between the windows, and a number of wooden boxes and chests lying on the floor by the heavy, carved oaken desk and chair at the far end of the room. Gil-galad walked towards one of the largest of these chests, took out another key, and opened it. Then he stepped back and gestured at the chest.

"Behold" said Gil-galad, "the Palantiri!"

Elendil looked into the chest. The interior was made of panels of wood covered in black cloth, and divided by panels of wood, covered by rich black velvet, into seven boxes. In each box lay a crystal sphere of varying colours, somehow infused with a substance that looked rather like smoke. Elendil stared at the crystal spheres in growing wonder, for he saw that the smoke, or mist, or whatever it was, appeared to shift here and there within the crystal, almost as if it were alive!

He gazed up at Gil-galad, who smiled at him. "As you doubtless know, 'Palantiri', rendered into the tongue of the Numenoreans, means 'Those that Watch from Afar'. Long ago, ages before even I was born, they were crafted in Valinor by the High Elven King Feanor himself. It was Feanor who later forged the Silmaril jewels, whose theft by Morgoth led to the return of many of the Noldorin High Elves to Middle Earth in his pursuit. Our return, as you know, culminated in the War of Wrath. These Palantiri were but an essay in Feanor's skill, before he turned his attention to the Silmarils and his attempts to capture within them the blessed light of the Two Trees of Valinor."

"Then these Palantiri are ancient as well as beautiful" said Elendil, who could not quite believe he was staring at works that had actually been crafted by the hands of the legendary Feanor himself.

"They are indeed" said Gil-galad. "Though they may also be of practical value, not least to Men."

"Practical value?" asked Elendil.

"These Palantiri are devices designed to transmit images and thoughts over long distances. Each of the stones can see whatever is visible from the others. An adept can use any of the stones to cast his vision over long distances, even over the Sea to the Master Stone, which is located in the Tower of Avallone upon Eressea. ."

"When Feanor led the Noldorin exiles from Valinor to Middle Earth in hot pursuit of Morgoth, he took seven of the Palantri with him. After Feanor was slain, they were passed unto his heirs, and in due course have come into my possession. Using them, I can gaze upon Avallone itself, and behold the blessed land of Valinor across the Bay of Eldamar." Elendil stared at the crystal spheres again with amazement.

"I have not much used the Palantiri for other purposes," Gil-galad continued, "for those of us High Elves who are immersed in lore have long since mastered the art of sending our thoughts directly into each others minds, no matter how great the distance that separates us. So, it seems to me that your need of the Palantri is now greater than mine."

"What are you saying?" asked Elendil. Surely, Gil-galad did not mean to give him an object as precious as a Palantir?

"While we High Elves can send thoughts into each others minds, I understand that you Men must still communicate over distances in the more conventional manner – by messenger on horseback" said Gil-galad with a smile. "But messages can be intercepted, and messengers can be bribed, and I daresay the King's spies report the movements of all messengers between his nobles on the isle of Numenor. Using these Palantiri, the members of your family and your most trusted servants and friends can communicate with each other instantly, no matter how great the distance that separates them. And they can do so without fear that their messages will be intercepted by Sauron and the King. That will no doubt prove useful indeed in the dark days that may lie ahead. So take the Palantiri with my blessing, and present them to your father Lord Amandil, as a gift from his friend High King Gil-galad. Guard them well, and use them wisely!"

Elendil, awestruck, stared open-mouthed at the ancient seeing stones. "Surely you cannot mean to give us all of the Palantiri, friend Gil-galad? We could not accept such a..."

"You can and you will accept this gift" said Gil-galad. "Before you depart, my servants will stow this chest, bearing the Palantiri, on your ship. In any case," smiled Gil-galad, "I am not giving you _all_ the Palantri – you will recall the Master Stone remains at Eressea."

Elendil stood enraptured for some minutes. To think that Gil-galad would give him, a mere Man, such a gift...why, when he had mastered the art of using the seeing stones, he could even cast his gaze to the Master Stone of Tol Eressea, and gaze upon Valinor itself!

"Neither words nor deeds are sufficient to thank you for this gift" said Elendil, his voice breaking with emotion.

Gil-galad stared at him, and said firmly "Words of thanks are not required. But you can show your gratitude through your deeds. Use the Palantiri to prevent the extinguishment of the light in Numenor, and that shall be thanks enough!"

Gil-galad closed and locked the chest, and gave the key to Elendil. Then he took Elendil by the shoulder and led him back down the stairs. "Come my friend," said Gil-galad, "we have spent more than half the day talking, and it will soon be nightfall. You have fasted since early this morning. I will not have it said that any Elf-friend was left to starve and suffer from thirst under my roof. To the banquet hall!"

Though overcome by his emotions, Elendil could not suppress the smile he felt spreading across his face. At least, he thought, the wisdom of the Elves was tempered by mirth!


	6. The Hallow and the Throne

**VI.) The Hallow and the Throne **

The peak of Meneltarma, highest mountain of the isle of Numenor, was unlike that of most mountains. Shaped like a great bowl, it held at its centre a vast field of grass, which rippled in the mountain winds like the waters of the Sea. By the edge of the field stretched a forest of tall, smooth-barked trees of the sort admired by the Elves. Rare flowers grew amidst the green grass in the shady spaces between the trees. Ages before, they had been brought to Numenor from Valinor by visiting High Elves, in the distant times when Elves were counted by the Kings as friends of Men.

This was the Hallow of Eru, the creator God. The Numenoreans did not have temples, for they believed that nature itself was a grand temple to Eru. Here, on the highest peak of their island, was the only place apart from Andunie where Men could hope to glimpse the Tower of Avallone a clear day. No matter what the time of year, the Hallow remained temperate and evergreen. In this place, the Men of Numenor believed they were closer to Eru than anywhere else they could voyage on Earth. Thus the Hallow was declared by the Kings to be sacred to Him. Only the Keepers of the Hallow, whom some Men likened to priests, were permitted to dwell within. They passed their days in tending to the Hallow and its trees and flowers, though it had been many years since pilgrims had regularly visited the Hallow, and since the Kings made their thrice-yearly procession there in offerance of the first fruits of the season, and observation of the rituals that marked the worship of Eru.

Queen Miriel – Ar-Zimraphel, in the common tongue of Numenor – stood amid the waving grasses, noting absently how her graying black hair was stirred by the breeze. She creased the fabric of her long black dress between her fingers, and sighed.

Miriel often came to this place, alone, to soothe her spirits when life in the Palace became unbearable. She was past a hundred and twenty now, but if she did not look half so old, she felt much older. More than ninety years before, when she was still young, and held to be the fairest maiden in all of Numenor, the death of her father King Ar-Inziladun had lead to her coronation as Queen. She was his only child, and so by the laws of Numenor only she could adopt the title of Monarch. Whatever man she chose to marry would have no claim to the throne, and could only bear the title of Prince Consort.

Yet it was not to be. Her first cousin Pharazon, son of her father's younger brother Gimilkhad, had not been content to bear the mere title of Prince, and many men loyal to him had been ill pleased to see a woman occupy the throne. They had grand designs for the power of Numenor, the scope of its dominion, and they did not believe a woman could carry out the task they envisioned for the new Monarch. Pharazon was their man, but he was not the heir to the throne, and by the ancient laws of marriage he was not even permitted to marry his first cousin and act as Prince Consort.

Pharazon, however, cared little for the law. This trait drew him to the attention of a particularly corrupt and venal faction that ancient party of nobles known as the King's Men, which ever since the distant days of King Tar-Atanamir had turned its back on the Elves and their ways, and sought wealth and power in place of knowledge and wisdom. With the support and encouragement of these patrons, Ar-Pharazon had forced the Queen to marry him against her will.

This satisfied Pharazon's sponsors, who would have been content for Pharazon to rule the land as Prince Consort, while the Queen reigned as a mere figurehead. Yet, Pharazon had barely finished repeating his nuptual vows before he proved himself to be a man with his own ambitions, and no mere instrument of a party of courtiers. Unwilling to accept that anyone should rank above him, he added insult to injury, and shocked even his own supporters, by seizing Miriel's crown, scepter and throne, and crowning himself Ar-Pharazon the Golden of Numenor. Thus, Miriel reflected bitterly, a man who held in contempt the laws that all Monarchs were sworn to uphold had stolen her birthright.

Miriel, shakened and angered by the insults and humiliations that had been heaped upon her, had expected the people of Numenor, both commoners and nobles, to rise to her defence. However, most of the commoners viewed Pharazon's palace coup as nothing more than the latest round of political intrigue, and they soon accepted Ar-Pharazon the Golden as their King. For their part, many of the nobles had sneered at Pharazon the Usurper, as they now called him, behind his back - even though they fawned over him in his presence.

Those who sneered too loudly and openly had soon found their shoulders relived of their heads. Yet, Ar-Pharazon was as shrewd as he was ruthless, and he used the office of King to distribute many concessions and perquisites to those nobles willing to accept such gifts in exchange for their support for his claim to the throne. Ar-Pharazon proved so adept at this murky game that, within very little time, the vast majority of the nobles had decided that his rule was congenial to their interests. Accordingly, even those who secretly held the King in disdain made no efforts to oppose his rule.

The Lords of Andunie had stood virtually alone in refusing to accept Ar-Pharazon's gifts. It was rumoured, to the disbelief of many, that they had done so not in hope of extorting a higher price for their support, but because Amandil had disapproved in principle of Ar-Pharazon's actions. Whatever his motives, though, Amandil had not dared to set himself against the will of the majority of the nobles and commoners of Numenor. And so Miriel was left alone, and defeated.

Miriel had not borne the so-called King any heirs. That seemed not surprising, since Ar-Pharazon was far more enamored of his numerous courtesans than he was of his Queen. He paraded her for official functions of state, but apart from that rarely saw her or spoke to her. She whiled away most of her days in enforced idleness, sometimes in the Palace Garden, and sometimes in her chambers.

Miriel knew that if Ar-Pharazon were to die before her, which seemed likely given his age, the laws of Numenor would forbid her as a widow from remarrying. As one who still respected the old ways, she was not inclined to violate them. Therefore, if she did not bear an heir for Ar-Pharazon, the consequence would be the end of their line of succession. Miriel regretted not having any children to carry on her line, although another part of her was nevertheless relieved that her blood had not been mixed with that of her usurper.Still, she wondered, why would Ar-Pharazon not wish for his own heir to succeed him on the throne? He sometimes talked vaguely of producing an heir, yet his words never seemed to hold much conviction. It was almost, thought Miriel, as if the old fool believed that he would live forever! And he was not likely to change his mind with that honey-tongued flatterer, Sauron, was constantly at his side. Sauron had practically convinced Ar-Pharazon that he, the King, was in fact a living god.

Miriel's humor grew even worse when she thought of Sauron. How had the Dark Lord of Mordor, sworn enemy of the Men of the West, become the Steward of of Armenelos and practically the right hand of the King? Miriel seemed to be the only one in the Palace who was even half-capable of resisting his smooth charm. When in his presence, she always found his words to be fair and just. Yet, after his departure, when she reflected on those words, they would often strike her as mere flash and glitter, devoid of any substance.

She was well aware that the ladies of the court found Sauron to be more than merely charming, since they had long whispered amongst themselves about his ever-youthful, unearthly beauty. But although Sauron was a master of flirting and gallantry, he had, so far as Miriel knew, never shown any interest in romance. Rather, he spent as much of his time as possible in the company of the King, or the so-called King's Men. He seemed to exercise a mysterious hold over them, though Miriel could not discern its nature.

Miriel herself found Sauron's face to be attractive. Yet, she also found his presence to be disturbing. It was not just that he had long been the enemy of Numenor, before Ar-Pharazon's apparent taming of him. When Miriel stared into the black pupils of Sauron's clear blue eyes, they always struck her as utterly void, as windows into nothing. She could not stare into Sauron's eyes without feeling a cold chill run down her spine. Sauron even seemed to be aware of her fear, for at times, even as he spoke fair words to her, his features bore a smile that she could only describe as mocking. How was it possible that no one else at court, not even the women, shared her dark intuition about him?

"Your Royal Highness" said a gruff voice behind her.

She turned around with a start, forgetting for a moment how it usually grated on her nerves to be addressed as "Your Royal Highness", rather than as "Your Majesty" – as if she were Ar-Pharazon's consort! But she was too astonished to dwell on her grievances. Standing before her was a man clad in the silver armour, and black tunic bearing the design of the White Tree, that she recognized as that of the Royal Household Guard of Numenor.

The Queen was shocked that the Man had spoken to her, for it was forbidded for anyone save the Monarch to speak within the confines for the Hallow. Moreover, the Keepers of the Hallow rarely permitted soldiers on active duty within its sacred precincts. Strangest of all, the Man openly bore a spear in his right hand, while his sword was attached to his belt – Miriel knew that weapons of any kind were never permitted in the Hallow under any circumstances.

"My lady" continued the guardsman, seemingly oblivious to his obligation to remain silent within the Hallow, "you must leave this place now. By order of the King." He thrust a scroll towards her with his left hand. "The King requires your immediate presence at Armenelos. We have a cavalry escort waiting to take you there at once."

Miriel glowered at the guard, but took the scroll without comment. She followed him across the grassy field, and climbed the path up though the forest to the rim of the Hallow of Eru, which formed the summit of Meneltarma. When she reached the summit, she could see the whole isle of Numenor spread out before her like a great emerald jewel, although a mass of clouds and mist in the West prevented her from seeing the beacon from the Tower of Avallone. Outside the Hallow, there were more armed guards waiting for her, along with several horses.

As they helped her mount a horse, she wondered why she could not see any of the Keepers of the Hallow; there was always at least one who stood where the path met the brink, and whose task was to admit or deny those who sought pilgrimage within. Turning to the guardsman who had escorted her from the altar, she asked "Where is the Keeper who guards the entry to the Hallow? Nor can I see any of his kin, even though their white robes are usually visible from afar."

The guard stared at her with hard eyes and said nothing. Some of the other men had mounted their horses. "Ride on!" said the guard, turning to them. "Don't stop for anything until the Queen has reached the Palace!"

One of the guardsmen on horseback took the reins of her horse, and led her down the winding mountain path into the grassy Vale of Norinan, the Valley of the Tombs. As she rode, could see a pall of dust rising from the trail far below, and moving away from them; riders who were also journeying from the mountain towards the Palace. More guards, she wondered?

As she descended into the Vale, she could many doorways of pure white marble, fronted with pillars of black onyx, cut into the base of the Mountain. Behind these doors, she knew, were chambers wherein lay the tombs of the Kings and Queens before her, stretching back to the incredibly ancient days of Elros Half-Elven, known to Men as King Tar-Minyatur. Tar-Minyatur, and each succeeding ruler in his line, had his own lifelike statute mounted on his tomb.

Within each tomb lay the body of the Monarch. Many of the more recent bodies were perfectly preserved. The Numenoreans, in their quest for means to improve their medical knowledge and extend their lifespan, had as a byproduct of their researches become masters of the art of embalming. In this manner they sought to diminish the sting of death, for at least their bodies would not have to suffer the decay that was the lot of ordinary Men.

Only Monarchs who legally occupied the throne of Numenor had a right to burial within the Vale of Norinan. Miriel wondered idly whether she would someday rest wih her ancestors, or whether Ar-Pharazon the Golden would usurp even this privilege from her.

* * *

On the fiftieth anniversary of the Great Victory, and two years after Elendil's secret visit to Lindon, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden summoned representatives from all the noble houses of Numenor to his throne room in the Royal Palace at Armenelos. Even the Lords of Andunie were summoned, although the growing breach between them and the King since their internal exile was the source of much gossip amongst the hangers-on at court. Amandil had pleaded ill-health, and Elendil that he was needed on urgent local matters in Romenna. Elendil had instead sent his sons, Isildur and Anarion. Isildur was now twenty-three, Anarion eighteen. Both were considered highly eligible prospects for marriage by the ladies at court, notwithstanding their political differences with the King.

The vast throne room of the Royal Palace at Armenelos could have encompassed a small army, and was more than spacious enough to accommodate representatives of all the noble Houses of Numenor, as well as the officials and minions of the court. It was circular in shape, and fashioned of white marble. The huge domed roof, painted dark blue, and cunningly set with gems that twinkled like stars when the sunlight shone through them, was supported by graceful pillars of marble inlaid with flowing patterns in silver and gold. Along the base of the dome, many arched windows allowed sunlight and the sea-breeze into the room. In the recesses behind the pillars were silver fountains, whose pleasant murmuring echoed quietly throughout the vast hall. At the eastern end of the throne room, a pair of bronze doors guarded the exit to the long, marble-pillared corridor beyond. At the western end of the throne room a series of steps led up to the golden throne itself, a massive object decorated on its armrests and its peak with carved golden eagles with precious gems for eyes. To the left of the throne, from the viewpoint point of one sitting in it, sat a small bench, carved of ivory. To the right of the throne sat a matching bench, carved of ebony. To each side of the throne, set in the wall behind it, were doors of dark-stained wood, inlaid with patterns in ebony and ivory. Members of the Royal Household Guard, magnificent in their armour of polished silver and jet black tunics, bearing the White Tree design of the royal family, stood at attention by these doors, and along the base of the steps leading up to the throne, their spears pointing proudly towards the dome above.

The assembled nobles stood in the hall facing the throne, the sounds of their gossiping echoing around the room. There had been no indication of why they had been summoned, for in previous anniversaries of the Great Victory the King been content for parades to be held in each major city. Speculation about his purposes therefore ran rampant. Anarion, dressed in robes of blue and white, strained to hear some of the conversations around him, while Isildur, wearing robes of blue and green, stifled a yawn. To think they had traveled halfway across Numenor to hear a group of elderly nobles and courtiers gossiping! He was just about to suggest to his brother that they find some way to make a surreptitious exit when he snapped to attention at the sound of blaring golden trumpets.

Looking up, he could see the doors had opened. Heralds, dressed in robes of black and white, walked though the doors, continuing to blow their golden trumpets. They marched down the stairs below the base of the throne, and blew their trumpets a third time. One of them – the very same herald who had pronounced sentence of exile on the Lords of Andunie, two years before - then pulled out a large scroll and said, in loud and very officious voice;

"Hear ye, Hear ye, nobles of Numenor! Ye have been summoned to an audience with your King. Now, stand ye at attention in the presence of these distinguished personages:"

"The Honourable Steward of Armenelos, Lord Sauron."

Though the door to the left of the throne, Sauron entered. He was dressed entirely in robes of black, under a black cape trimmed with cloth of gold. Around his neck shone the silver-medallioned chain of the office of Steward, and on his right hand, he bore the ever-present ring of gold with its curiously glowing letters. He strode past the throne to the black bench, and stood in front of it, the very image of poise and dignity. The assembled nobles bowed their heads briefly. Isildur and Anarion stared intently at the infamous Sauron, for this was the first time they had seen him. Anarion noted the slightest trace of a smile on Sauron's coolly perfect face. Isildur heard several ladies in the crowd giggling appreciatively.

"Her Royal Highness, Ar-Zimraphel."

The Queen entered from the same door as Sauron. She was dressed entirely in a gown of white, which offset her graying black hair and blue eyes. Her still attractive face bore an air of faded nobility. She stood in front of the ivory bench, to Isildur's right, and stared above the heads of the nobles beneath her. They bowed their heads again, for a bit longer this time. Isildur could detect the Queen's dour mood from two score feet away.

"His Majesty, Ar-Pharazon the Golden."

The King entered from the door to the right of the throne. He walked past Sauron, then turned and stared at the assembled nobles of Numenor. The lords snapped out a crisp salute, right hands drawn up into a fist clenched to their left breasts, while the ladies curtsied elegantly.

Those from the outer provinces who had not seen the King for some years were taken aback by his appearance. Prior to naming Sauron as his Steward, the King had looked like an ordinary Man of about sixty. Now, at over two-hundred years of age, he looked closer to an ordinary Man of eighty. Many fine lines creased his pale face, and his silver beard was growing wispy. His firey blue eyes stared feverishly at the crowd, a sly grin distorting his features. He bore the silver, bejewelled crown upon his head, and the golden sceptre in his right hand. His arm seemed a bit palsied under the weight of the scepter, which swayed gently back and forth. Anarion noted that the King was dressed in most un-regal fashion, wearing gaudy robes of scarlet and purple, and a cape of purple and gold silk.

The King sat down slowly in his throne, and without so much as a glace at Miriel looked at Sauron. "Ye may stand at ease" said Sauron to the assembled nobles. He and Miriel then took their places on their respective benches.

There was silence for a moment, while the King's eyes roamed back and forth over the assembly before him. His eyes lingered on Isildur and Anarion, his smile contorting into a frown. Then, mustering an air of owlish gravity, he directed his gaze at the entire assembly, and spoke:

"Nobles of Numenor" said he, in a dry, harsh voice, "you have been summoned here to witness a most momentous occasion. The most momentous occasion in the history of our proud island."

He certainly had their attention now. He continued:

"Today is of course the fiftieth anniversary of our victory – your King's victory – over Sauron of Mordor. Then, he was our enemy. But he recognized that the power of Numenor is greater than that of any other power upon this Earth. Yea, he recognized the power of Numenor, and bowed before your King. He has since proved himself to be my most loyal, trusted servant, and I am grateful to him for his counsel."

"My leige" said Sauron, bowing his head briefly.

"As you know," continued the King, "our Royal Steward is very ancient – notwithstanding his youthful looks – and a loremaster of great renown. It is from his lore, and my own researches, that I have uncovered a great revelation." Ar-Pharazon's eyes gleamed, his face now bearing a look of keen anticipation. "Yes, a great revelation. The most important news that Man has ever received! And on this, I have based a decision that shall rebound across the World and back again, and shape the destiny of our proud island and our mighty empire for all time. Shall I now reveal this news to you?"

"Tell us, my liege!" cried a voice from the crowd. Anarion recognized it as coming from Nuphkor, the noble whom he and Isildur had confonted in the mountains above Andunie two years before. Thanks to Sauron's meddling, that confrontation had led to the internal exile of the Lords of Andunie to Romenna. Nuphkor caught Anarion's stare, and briefly glowered at him, before turning his gaze back to the King.

"I shall tell you" said the King. He turned to Miriel, acknowledging her existence for the first time that afternoon. "You were summoned here yesterday, were you not, my Queen?"

"Yes, my liege" she said, in a weary, toneless voice.

"And from where did I summon you?" asked the King softly.

"From the Hallow of Eru, my liege." Isildur noted that a frown crossed Sauron's face, though only for an instant.

"From the Hallow of Eru. Of course. And tell me, my love, did you see Eru there?"

Miriel looked shocked. The crowd was deathly silent.

"My liege?" she asked, uncertainly.

"I asked you a question, woman" said the King, his voice grown hard and cold, abandoning any pretence of civility. "Did you see Eru there, or not?"

Miriel could not believe her ears. What was this blasphemy? And in front of practically all the courtiers and nobles of Numenor! Had Ar-Pharazon finally gone completely mad? Was this some sort of jest? Yet looking into his fiery blue eyes, which bored fiercely into hers, she could see it was no jest. And that she had better answer, and quickly.

"Nnn..No, my liege" she said, in a soft, trembling voice.

"Louder, woman!" barked the King.

"No, my liege."

"No, you did not see Eru." The King turned back to the crowd, noting with pleasure that Isildur's jaw had dropped, while Anarion stared up at him grimly. "Did you hear that, my loyal subjects?" asked the King, who now adopted a shocked, scandalized air. "The Queen of Numenor went to the Hallow of Eru, and yet Eru was not there to greet her! How rude of Him. How insolent!"

The crowd remained silent, though Nuphkor's face was twisted with a mocking grin.

Ar-Pharazon turned his attention back to the Queen, whose body was trembling like a dry leaf in the autumn winds. "Now answer me this, woman. Why was He not there to greet you?"

"Whh..well...my liege...He is never there to greet His supplicants."

"He is never there?" asked the King, his face forming a mask of astonishment. "How can that be possible?" Then he smiled, slyly. "I have the answer to that question. It is the revelation of which I spoke earlier. Can you guess it?"

Miriel was silent, tears running down her cheeks.

The King turned to the nobles beneath him. "Can any of you guess it?"

Silence.

"No? Then I shall tell you." The King's smile became triumphant. His eyes gleamed exultantly, his voice harsh and powerful. "He is never there to greet his supplicants, because he does not exist!"

Now many nobles were staring at the King, open mouthed. Isildur noted that Sauron was openly smiling, his fair face beaming with mirth.

"That is right, you fools!" cried the King. "There is no Eru! For more than three and a half thousand years, your ancestors have worshipped a false god, one who does not exist!"

"But note that I did not say that the Creator does not exist. Oh yes, He does. He certainly does. I have felt His power. My servant Sauron has felt His power. My loyal followers, those who are touchingly referred to as the King's Men, have felt His power. And soon, all of you will feel His power too! For it has been long since He walked this Earth, but His time is coming. Soon, very soon, He will return in justice and in vengeance, smiting the rebellious Valar, and their Elvish lackeys, and all those dogs of Men who worship the false oracle Eru!"

"But to his followers – his loyal followers – He will bring great rewards. For those Men who bind themselves to His service, those who make the necessary sacrifices when He demands them, He will grant their dearest wish – their heart's desire."

The King paused dramatically. "He will grant that which the Valar and the false oracle Eru have always denied us."

The King raised his voice triumphantly. "He will grant us eternal life!"

"Eternal life!" shouted the guards around the throne, without warning.

"Eternal life!" shouted the heralds.

"Eternal life!" shouted Nuphkor, and the King's Men in the crowd standing near to him.

Others in the crowd, who were noted for their venality or their cynicism, began to take up the cry. "Eternal life! Eternal life!" they shouted, and the whole room was filled with their shouts and cries. Isildur remained silent, astonished at what was going on around him. Anarion looked pale and frightened. The Queen was slumping on her bench, practically fainting with shock and terror. Sauron smiled even more broadly, the glowing letters of his golden ring suddenly as bright as fire.

After some minutes, Ar-Pharazon silenced the crowd with a gesture from his hand. Then Nuphkor, as if on cue, called out "What is the name of the true God, my liege?"

The King smiled. "Lord Sauron, will you not answer his question?"

"With pleasure, my liege" replied Sauron, in his high, clear voice. Rising from his bench, he turned to the assembled nobles, and said:

"The true God is the Lord of the Darkness, the Lord of the Great Void that existed before Creation. He has been called many names, but his true name is Melkor, He Who Arises in Might. And in Might he will punish those oppose Him, and reward those who serve Him – yes, even reward them with eternal life! Those who follow Melkor shall become as gods themselves!"

For a moment, the room was silent. Of course...that fair voice, so clear, so soothing, had always spoken the truth to them...yes, the creator was Melkor...the Lord of the Darkness...

"Liar!" shrieked the Queen, and in an instant the spell was broken. She was on her feet now, pointing her trembling arm accusingly at Sauron. "Fiend! You blaspheme the name of Eru while standing in the heart of Numenor! The very island He created for the dominion of the Men of the West! Vile serpent, get you gone to the Void, to the home of your black master Morgoth, and take this creature your King with you!"

Sauron's fair visage cracked, though only for a moment. His smile twisted into a terrible frown. His eyes glared murderously, matched in intensity by the fiery script of his golden ring.

Meanwhile, Ar-Pharazon had leapt to his feet. "You dare to challenge your King!" he cried, in a harsh, shrill voice. "You dare to blaspheme the sacred name of Melkor, and the word of his herald Sauron! Traitor!" Before she could say anything, he lifted up his golden scepter and smashed it against her chest! Instantly, she dropped to the ground, a broken, crumpled heap. Isildur rushed toward her, but the guards at the base of the throne pushed him back, spears at the ready. There was a murmuring amongst the crowd.

"Get the wench out of here!" Ar-Pharazon screamed, drool dribbling down his chin. Two guards picked her up and dragged her away, though the door to the left of the throne.

Meanwhile, Sauron had regained his composure. The script on his ring had subsided to its usual curious glow. "Sit down, your Majesty" he said, "and calm yourself." Instantly, the King returned to the throne and sat down, his eyes oddly vacant. Sauron then turned to the crowd, and addressed them:

"It is now my duty to inform you of three commands of the King" said he. "They have been documented in writing and sealed, and will be placed in the Hall of Records for those who care to look upon them." Isildur noted that Sauron's voice was not quite as fair as it had first seemed; it had an edge to it that was hard and cold. Anarion, trembling with shock and fear, took Isildur's arm for support, and stared at the fiend above them.

Yet, Sauron's voice sounded as alluring as ever to those who had taken up the cry of "Eternal Life!" some minutes before. Isildur could see by their faces that the Dark One was swiftly regaining his hold over them.

"First" said Sauron, "the rituals of worship of the false oracle Eru, and the treacherous Valar, are banned forever in the Land of Numenor, and all the lands of Middle Earth under its sovereignty. Any Man who sets foot in the so-called Hallow of Eru shall be subject at once to penalty of death."

"Second, the True God Melkor, Giver of Freedom, requires a temple and priesthood to honour him with worship and sacrifice. I shall recruit the priesthood from the most deserving of the King's Men. The temple shall be constructed in the great public square that lies at the heart of Armenelos. I shall forthwith order the conscription of slaves from the lands of Middle Earth to build this temple, and the requisitioning of raw materials for it. By order of the King, I myself shall personally oversee this temple's construction. When it is completed, I shall be its High Priest, and officiate the worship of and sacrifices to Melkor conducted there."

"Third, as to sacrifice; Melkor's generosity to his followers does not come without a price. Melkor demands their absolute loyalty and obedience. These qualities are proven through the offering of sacrifices. It is in exchange for such sacrifices that Melkor confers Eternal Life, and worldy power and wealth, on his loyal worshippers. The King has ordered that as High Priest, the responsibility of determining who is to be sacrificed to Melkor, and when, shall be mine alone." He smiled, seeming amused at the thought. His eyes glittered keenly. "And my command is that the first sacrifice to Melkor in this land shall commence forthwith!"

Sauron signaled to the guards. At the far end of the hall, the great bronze doors that led into the corridor beyond opened with a groan. The crowd stepped back as a group of guardsmen pushed what seemed to be a giant brazier of bronze, mounted on bronze wheels, into the center of the throne room. Isildur noted that the brazier seemed rather crudely fitted together, and appeared to have been recently constructed – for this precise moment? Anarion, his whole body trembling now, face bathed in cold sweat, noted that a small flight of stairs ran up one side of the brazier from its base to its lip.

At a signal from Sauron, another guard ran from the corridor to the brazier, bearing a flaming torch. He raced up the steps, tossed in the torch, and jumped aside. Instantly, the brazier, which must have been fueled with pitch beforehand, roared with a huge fire. The intense heat pushed the crowd even further back, toward the walls of the throne room.

"Let the sacrifice commence! Bring forth the honoured victims, so our God may feast upon them!" cried Sauron, with a laugh that was clear and cold. Isildur watched the guards and the brazier warily. Anarion looked at the crowd, most of whom seemed enraptured, although a few were as horrorstruck as himself.

There was a commotion from the entrance to the throne room. Then, to their horror, Isildur and Anarion saw who the guards were dragging in, bound hand and foot. It was the seven white-robed Keepers of the Hallow of Eru! As they saw the fate Sauron had in store for them, some prayed aloud, and some wept, while others begged for mercy. "I am sure Melkor will consider your pleas for mercy, once your souls have been delivered up to Him" laughed Sauron. "Cast them in!"

Isildur felt his blood turn to ice-water as, one by one, the bound, struggling Keepers of Eru's Hallow were dragged up the steps of the brazier and cast alive into the pitiless fires of Morgoth! As their terrible screams began echoing though the chamber, Ar-Pharazon cackled manically on his throne, the gleam of madness in his eyes.

"To Melkor! For life eternal!" shouted Nuphkor from the crowd.

"To Melkor! To Melkor! To Melkor!" the crowd shouted ecstatically, the roar of their voices drowning out all but the highest-pitched screams of their victims. Was it not as Sauron the Wise had told them? Did not the sacrifice of these lackeys of the Valar, who had promised Men nothing but the tomb, pave the road to eternal life for Melkor's followers?

Isildur could stomach no more. He turned to Anarion, who was leaning heavily on him. Anarion looked ready to be sick. "Quickly brother" whispered Isildur, "let us leave this accursed place, before the Dark One decides to make sacrifices of a few youthful nobles as well." Anarion nodded weakly, and Isildur led him out of the throne room. The baying horde of men and women, their faces twisted with bloodlust and greed, did not even notice the brothers' exit, and the stony faced guards did nothing to hinder them. Isildur noted that several other nobles, mostly those from outlying provinces who had little contact with the court at Armenelos, were also leaving the room, their faces stricken with anguish and disgust.

As Isildur walked through the great bronze doors that opened on the corridor leading to the exit from the Palace, he felt compelled against his better judgment to look back one last time at the scene of horror. All of the victims had now been cast into the fire, and their screams could no longer be heard over the roar of the mob. Isildur prayed their spirits had already been released up to Eru. The fire from the brazier gave off a black, oily smoke that twisted to the top of the domed roof and out of the windows like a great serpent. Before Isildur turned away, for the last time, he looked at Sauron, visible on the stairs beneath the King's throne. Sauron's seemingly fair visage was twisted with a mocking grin, and he stared triumphantly at Isildur. Even from this distance, Isildur's Elven-keen vision allowed him to discern every feature of the Dark Lord's face. Isildur noted how unpleasant were Sauron's eyes; amidst the blue irises, his pupils were darker than the blackest midnight, windows into the uttermost abyss.

Isildur twisted his glance away from Sauron. As took the stunned Anarion by the arm, and led him briskly down the corridor towards the Palace's exit, the group of noblemen and their wives who had left the throne room caught up with him.

"My lord Isildur! My lord Anarion!" said the eldest man amongst them.

Isildur recognized him. "My lord Earakhor" he replied. He recalled that Amandil had spoken of Earakhor of Eldalonde as one of the few nobles who displayed on occasion some wisdom.

"My lords" said Earakhor, his silver beard trembling, tears rimming his brown eyes, "we have seen here today a horror that has no name. Now we shall rue the day that Sauron the accursed and abhorred ever set foot on our once fair island. For I no longer deem this land or its people to be fair; we have been cursed with a foul blasphemy that shall rebound from one side of the World to the other. The Valar themselves will cry out with shock and horror, and yea with fearsome anger when they hear of this! To think we should live to see the day when the Keepers of Eru's Hallow should be bound hand and foot by the King of Numenor's bodyguards, and sacrificed by fire to Morgoth Bauglir in the King's throne room, with the King's approval! Verily, we have lived to see the last days of Numenor. For I deem that at the very pinnacle of our power and glory, the darkest night has fallen upon us."

Isildur stared at the man and nodded, but said nothing. Anarion seemed dazed, beyond comprehending any words. Earakhor looked at the ashen-faced nobles who had accompanied him, and their sobbing wives. These grave men nodded at Earakhor, and he turned back to Isildur and spoke:

"My lords" said he, "those few of us who did not join the baying mob in that charnel house" – he gestured at the throne room – "know there is only one beacon of light left amidst the darkness of thrice-accursed Numenor. That beacon is the House of Andunie; your noble grandfather Amandil, your worthy father Elendil, and you lads Isildur and Anarion, who are both wise beyond your years. May we accompany you on your journey back to Amandil's palace at Romenna? For we shall not linger here any longer, and there is much we would discuss with your grandfather and your father."

"A thousand blessings upon you, my lords and ladies" said Isildur, managing a wan smile. "Your presence at Romenna is most welcome!"


	7. The Tree and the Temple

**VII.) The Tree and the Temple**

In his private chambers in the palace of Romenna, Amandil stared into the master Palantir mounted on the pedestal before him.

It was fifty-five years, he reflected, since Sauron had first stained the isle of Numenor with his dark presence. Now his shadow had grown very great, until it encompassed practically the whole of the land and its people. After the atrocity in the King's throne room at Armenelos, five years before, Sauron had begun construction of his Temple of Melkor. Using uncounted numbers of foreign slaves, and whatever dark magics were available to him though his Ring, Sauron had recently completed the unholy edifice, more quickly than anyone would have thought possible. Amandil had never seen it in person, but it was said to be a vast cylindrical building of white marble, five-hundred feet in diameter, with walls fifty feet thick. The marble walls rose two-hundred and fifty feet above the ground, and on top of them a great silver dome, gleaming in the sunlight, soared another two-hundred and fifty feet into the air. Into the top of this dome was cut a circular hole, designed to foul the skies with the black smoke of sacrifices to Morgoth.

Sauron had not refrained from conducting sacrifices during the period of the Temple's construction, building temporary altars for that purpose. He had begun by sacrificing the slaves who had built the Temple, as they became too exhausted to work. Now that the Temple was completed, these slaves were all but spent. He had dispatched many ships and soldiers of Numenor to the wild lands of Middle Earth to capture more sacrifices for his dark god. Yet these were not the only sources of sacrifice; for Sauron was ever ready to cast into the fire those amongst the Numenoreans he accused, whether truly or not, of blaspheming the name of Melkor, or of plotting against the King's life.

The Queen, since Ar-Pharazon squelched her protest on that fateful day in the throne room, had remained silent. She could not, or would not serve to rally those still faithful to Eru against the lies of Sauron. Amandil and Elendil had sought to organize resistence amongst the people of Numenor, yet all their efforts had been in vain. The worship of Morgoth – Melkor, Giver of Freedom, to his followers – had spread like wildfire amongst nobles and commoners alike. Amandil could not tell how many submitted to the new religion out of greed for eternal life and worldly power, and how many acquiesced out of fear. No Man had yet been sacrificed on the grounds of failing to worship Melkor. Yet, if a man spoke out in public, or even in private, _against_ the worship of Melkor, he placed his life in jeopardy. If, inside the walls of his own home, he even once called Melkor by the name Morgoth – the Dark Enemy – that was enough for his life to be forfeit. The walls had ears - it took but a whisper from one of Melkor's devotees to Sauron's priests for a dissenter to be condemned as a blasphemer and traitor, and sacrificed by fire.

Only here in Romenna, reflected Amandil, were those who were still faithful to Eru, and openly opposed to the worship of Melkor, allowed to remain unmolested. So far, the citizens of Romenna, buoyed by the spirit of their Lords, had avoided falling under the madness that had swept the rest of the island. Their numbers had been increased by Amandil's followers from Andunie, seven years ago. Every day their numbers waxed greater. After the declaration of the new religion, a handful of nobles had removed themselves and their families and servants from their own dwellings, and made their way to Romenna, acknowledging Amandil as their chosen leader. This trickle had soon turned into a flood - every week, bands of refugees found their way to the haven of Romenna, seeking sanctuary from the worship of Melkor.

Amandil was unsure how long Romenna's reprieve would last. Refugees had told him that the Lords of Andunie were demonized by Sauron's priests as heretics and blasphemers, and denounced by the King's Men as traitors to their liege-lord Ar-Pharazon. On the sacrificial altars, many Numenorean victims – no doubt under the influence of torture, or of Sauron's will – had publicly proclaimed that they were Amandil's agents, directed by him to commit many crimes against the loyal subjects of the King. Amandil knew that it was only a matter of time before the King used some pretext to send his armies against the Lords of Andunie, and wipe out the last bastion of resistance to the new order.

Amandil turned his attention back to the matter before him. It was the last day of the week, and the Sun had just dipped beneath the Western horizon - time for his weekly report from the only agent he truly had in Armenelos. That agent, an old friend of his son Elendil, was the only surviving senior military officer clear-headed enough to have recognized that Sauron was still the enemy of Numenor, and not its benefactor.

Amandil stared at the Palantir on its pedestal before him, and frowned. Gil-galad had explained to Elendil, that the Palantir responded to the will of the user, but that will must be focused and clear if the crystal sphere was to do its work. Amandil concentrated, and after a few moments the shifting smokes within the Palantir parted, revealing the image of a grey-bearded, aging face and blue eyes. Amandil had entrusted a Palantir to this man so that he could report, in absolute secrecy, on events in the capital, and the latest moves of Sauron and the King.

Curiously, when one stared into a Palantir at another Palantir user, one could communicate with him though thought alone, just as the wisest among the High Elves did without recourse to any external magics. Without opening his lips, Amandil spoke to the man whose misty image he could see in the crystal ball. "Report, Admiral Minastir."

Minastir seemed shaken. "My lord" he replied – the words formed soundlessly in Amandil's mind – "A new devilry of Sauron is afoot."

Amandil sighed. That was hardly surprising news. "What blasphemy is he planning now?" he asked.

"The White Tree, my lord", replied Minastir. "He wishes it to be cut down and burned, to inaugurate the opening of his accursed Temple. The human sacrifices on its altar will commence once the White Tree has been destroyed."

Amandil froze. More than three-thousand years ago, the White Tree, Nimloth the Fair, had been a gift of the High Elves of Valinor to Elros Half-Elven when he founded the land of Numenor. It was descended from Celeborn, the White Tree of Tol Eressea, which in turn was descended from Galathilion, the White Tree of Tirion in Elvenhome. Galathilion was fashioned in the image of mighty Telperion, the Silver Tree of Valinor. Telperion had stood next to Laurelin the Golden, and together these giant Two Trees of the Valar had provided light to the Blessed Land before the rise of the Sun and Moon.

The Two Trees were long gone, destroyed by Morgoth, but Galathilion and its descendents survivied as diminutive images of Telperion. Nimloth itself was a living symbol of the ancient ties between the Men of the West, the High Elves, and the Valar. The symbol of the White Tree was adopted as part of the heraldic design of the Kings of Numenor, and was displayed on the sable tunics, shields and banners of the Royal Household Guard. King Ar-Inziladun, father of Queen Miriel, had prophesied that the fate of the line of Elros was tied to the fate of the White Tree. As long as it lived and bloomed, he had prophesied, the heirs of Elros would flourish. But, should it ever die without being survived by any offspring, then the line of Elros would be overthrown.

"What does the King have to say about this?" asked Amandil.

Minastir frowned. "It seems strange that the King would agree to Sauron's demands. According to the well-known prophecy, it is Ar-Pharazon's own line that will be overthrown if the Tree perishes! For a time, the King seemed reluctant to agree. Yet I have heard rumor he is on the cusp of assenting to Sauron's demands. The King has already declared that Nimloth is a symbol of the enslavement of his ancestors to the false oracle Eru, and the rebellious Valar! I fear it will take little effort for Sauron to sway the King toward taking the final step."

Amandil pondered this news grimly. Not only did it foreshadow the end of the line of Kings, and the downfall of Numenor – signs of which seemed to flourish in these dark times – but his own family, as descendents of Elros, were also under the sway of the prophecy. Their fate, and that of their followers, was tied to that of the White Tree as much as was the fate of the King.

Amandil spoke again to the Admiral. "I do not know how to stop this mad scheme, should the King pursue it" he said. "It is beyond my power to guard the White Tree from the King's Men, standing as it does in the heart of the Palace Garden of Armenelos. But I shall take council with my sons and grandsons. We will do what we can to avert this evil."

"My lord" said Minastir. Then his image faded, and the depths of the Palantir were once again shrouded in shifting smokes.

* * *

Isildur crouched in an alcove of one of the walls flanking the Palace Garden. The oncoming evening lengthened the shadows that concealed him. Far above, the pale Moon stared down at him, and Earendil had begun his nightly voyage across the skies. A chill autumn breeze sailed through the Garden, rattling the leaves and branches of its many trees.

In the heart of the shady, pleasant gardens, on mound of green grass bedecked with flowers, stood the White Tree. It was as tall as the mightiest Oak, but there its resemblance to an ordinary tree of the mortal lands ended. Its smooth bark was as white as snow, its leaves dark green where they faced toward the Sun, but bright silver on their undersides. Smooth white fruits grew here and there from the branches of the tree, which swayed gently in the breeze.

It was to obtain one of these fruits that Isildur had embarked on this mission. Amandil had concluded it was inevitable that Sauron would have his way, and that the Tree would be destroyed. Moreover, he and Elendil had recognized with sorrow that it was impossible to save the Tree from the King's Men. Amandil had realized there was but one hope. If they could save a single fruit, then the prophecy need not be fulfilled – for planted elsewhere, a new White Tree could flourish, and the line of Elros might not perish utterly.

Yet, Amandil and Elendil had vacillated. They knew any attempt to penetrate the Palace of Armenelos as a thief involved fearful peril, and might well end in death. Amandil also feared that the King might use such an attempt as a pretext to declare the Lords of Andunie outlaws. Who then would protect the faithful of Romenna, those who had rejected the worship of Melkor, from the wrath of Sauron? The Lords of Andunie seemed to be caught on the horns of a dilemma, and to face a bad end no matter which course they chose.

Isildur did not have the patience to persuade his elders to take action. He decided to strike out for Armenelos on his own, and either rescue a fruit of the White Tree, or perish in the attempt. Anarion had come across the preparations for his departure, and wrung his secret plan from him. Anarion had then insisted on accompanying him, but Isildur flatly refused. Isildur could keep a lower profile if he traveled alone, for he and his brother had always acted together in the past, and might be recognized together where they would not be individually. Moreover, Isildur, who was well aware of the rashness of his plan, had no wish to have his beloved brother's death upon his head. He could not imagine returning to Elendil with a fruit of the White Tree, only to have to report that Anarion had perished in the attempt to rescue it. No – he would go on this quest by himself, and either succeed or fail alone.

Having shaved his beard to alter his appearance, and disguised himself as a sailor, Isildur had journeyed to Armenelos, and made contact with Minastir while the Admiral was conducting his weekly inspection of the harbour east of the capital. The Admiral, having been urgently informed of the object of Isildur's quest, agreed to help Isildur in whatever manner he could. He soon arranged for a uniform of one of the Palace servants to be delivered in secret to the tavern where Isildur was staying. Now disguised in the black and brown tunic and of a Royal servant, Isildur had managed to gain entry to the Palace without arousing the suspicion of the sentries. He had then made his way to the Palace Garden.

However, it seemed that the easy part of his quest was at an end. For the Tree was surrounded by a score of the Royal Household Guard, spears at the ready! Cursing under his breath, Isildur felt himself half-wishing that he had accepted Anarion's offer of assistance. Admiral Minastir himself would have tried to help Isildur directly if he could, but his face was so well known that he could not approach the Palace Garden without being detected. Isildur knew that was on his own.

What was needed, thought Isildur, was a distraction, if only for a few moments. But what?

He looked around. A hundred feet away, behind some bushes, was a wooden shed, where the Palace gardeners kept some of their implements. The ground around it was littered with straw and wood shavings. It had not rained in some days, and the whole structure looked very dry.

Smiling, Isildur crept towards the shed. No one was around. Reaching into a leather pouch attached to his belt, he removed a flint and tinder. Praying he would not be heard, he struck them as quietly as possible, while blowing gently on the straw that covered the ground. A few sparks flew from the tinder. Instantly, the straw caught fire, and a several small flames crept towards the shed. As Isildur retreated to his hiding spot, he could see that the flames were quickly arcing up the sides of the shed, which suddenly turned into a blazing beacon.

"Ho! A fire!" shouted some of the guards around the Tree.

"Quickly lads" said one, who appeared to be their captain, "we must look sharp and put it out! It wouldn't do for the King to find that his gardens had burned to the ground while we merely stood here and watched. You two stand guard by this tree – the rest of you, follow me, and we'll fetch buckets of water!" There was a clattering of iron-shod feet, and then most of the guards were out of sight. Only two remained by the Tree, gazing intently at the burning shed.

Isildur smiled grimly. Creeping behind a bush, closer to the Tree, he gave out a queer, high-pitched cry, like that of one of the agile, spotted jungle-cats of Far Harad which the King kept as pets.

"By Melkor, one of the King's pets is loose!" said one of the guards. "Dorlas! Go over there and grab the mangy beast by the scruff of the neck, and hold it 'till our comrades return! It seems chaos runs rampant this night."

Swearing, the other guard strode over to the bush, searching for the beast. To his astonishment, he found Isildur instead. Noting his black and brown robes, the guard was about to ask this fool of a servant why hiding in the bushes, crying like a cat – but he never got the chance for, quick as a flash, Isildur plunged a dagger into his throat.

As the man's body slumped to the ground, Isildur picked up his spear and, quickly judging his aim, threw it at the other guard like a javelin. It struck home at the unarmoured base of the man's neck, and the guard let out a short gurgling cry before he dropped to the ground, twitching.

Isildur wiped his dagger clean on the tunic of the first guard he had slain, and quickly sheathed it. With no wasted motion, he dashed towards the Tree and, as he neared its base, withthrew from his pouch a rope tipped by a grappling hook, which he tossed into the branches. Climbing up the smooth bark, he soon came upon a fruit on one of the lowest branches, while supporting his weight on the limb beneath him. He took out his dagger, and severed the curiously perfumed, firm white fruit. Holding the dagger in his teeth, he quickly stowed the fruit in a small woolen valise also attached to his belt, and hid the valise inside his tunic. He sheathed his dagger, and was about to scale down the Tree when he heard shouts from below.

"Bregor lies dead under the tree, one of our own spears in him!"

"Look, who is that knave up in the branches? After him!"

Cursing his ill fortune, Isildur looked about, frantically searching for an alternate exit from the Garden. He spotted a ledge projecting from the nearest tower of the Palace, some three-score feet above and away from him. Quickly, he tugged at the rope, which came undone, and caught it just below the grappling hook as it tumbled down. He swirled the rope, and tossed it towards the ledge. The grappling hook took hold, and Isildur swung off from the Tree towards the tower, narrowly avoiding being skewered by several spears tossed in his direction.

As his body slammed against the tower wall, the wind almost knocked out of him, he scrambled desperately to maintain his hold on the rope. As the guards raised the alarm, several more spears clattered against the smooth stone near to him. One of them grazed his unarmoured back, and he stifled a cry. The wound burned like fire, and yet Isildur knew that he must make haste. Within minutes more guards would be swarming through the Garden, doubtless some armed with crossbows rather than spears. Summoning all his fading strength, ignoring the blood spurting from his wound, he quickly pulled himself up the rope towards the overhanging ledge, some of the guardsmen's remaining spears missing him by barely a handsbreadth. Grasping the ledge with his hands, he swung his legs up, and then pulled his body over the side. Exhausted and in pain, he had just secured himself on the ledge, which projected from the base of a large, open window, when he heard a clatter of many iron-shod feet from the gardens below. Then, a great, ringing voice cried out:

"Fools! Can you not guard a mere tree for an evening without bungling?"

The voice belonged to none other than Sauron himself, dressed in flowing robes of sable and crimson. In his hands he bore a mighty, single-headed axe. Sauron looked from the burning shed to the spear-struck body of Bregor, slumped in front of the Tree, and his ruby lips curled with disdain.

"My lord..." said the man Isildur took to be the captain of the guards, but Sauron, with a snarl, lunged at the man and struck off his head with the axe!

As the head rolled away, and the body, spurting gouts of blood, crashed to the ground, Sauron turned on the now thoroughly cowed guards. "Gaping lackwits! Speak quickly, or you shall all burn for this! Whom did you see, the one who carried out these deeds? Where did he go?"

"He...he was up in the tree, my lord" stammered one of the guards. "He seemed to have cut one of the fruits from it, then he swung a rope up into the Queen's tower. He is up on yonder window now."

Sauron whipped his head up, staring at the window, and caught sight of Isildur before he could duck inside the tower.

"One of the whelps of Andunie!" shouted Sauron. "Too long have I allowed Romenna to sit as a dung-heap that attracts the flies of this land. Quickly! Summon the Guard to the Queen's tower at once! We must catch the heretic, all the more so if he has any of the Tree's fruits with him!"

Most of the guards scurried off, but Sauron ordered a score of them to remain. Some of them doused the burning shed with buckets of water, while others collected the body of their comrade Bregor, soon finding that of Dorlas as well. They avoided looking at their slain captain, fearful that Sauron's wrath might next be directed at one of them.

Meanwhile, Sauron turned his attention to the Tree. "At last, I have persuaded Ar-Pharazon to sentence you to death, Nimloth the Foul" said he. Isildur felt his blood run cold. "Too long has your rotten trunk stained this land with the essence of the accursed Valar, and their Elvish lackeys. But no longer. The hour of judgment is upon you!"

Sauron then addressed the guards, who now watched their High Priest eagerly, their fear replaced by desire for revenge against the false Valarian Gods. "I shall claim two victims for Melkor tonight" said Sauron, "first this foul Tree, and second Elendil's gutter-dropped brat!"

Raising the axe high above his head, Sauron brought it down upon the Tree. He must have been far stronger than his slender arms suggested, for with a single blow of the axe, the White Tree was severed from its base! With a low moan, almost like a cry of pain, Nimloth toppled over and crashed to the ground.

Sauron turned to the guards, shouting "Quickly, bring ropes, and drag the White Tree's carcass to the Temple of Melkor! The odour from its burning shall be a sweet balm to Him. I shall go to the King and inform him of the latest treason of the Lords of Andunie!"

Isildur felt a tear roll down his cheek as he gazed at the corpse of the beautiful White Tree, and contemplated its terrible fate. The pain of his wound was, for a time, damped by his grief at such evil. "That a gift from the Undying Lands should fuel the fires of the Great Enemy", he said to himself.

But, Isildur realized he had to flee the Queen's tower and escape the Palace, and quickly! He still carried a single fruit of the Tree within his tunic, and he had to bear it safely from the Palace if his mission were not to have been in vain.

He turned away from the window, and found himself in a large, vaulted room, illuminated by glowing candles scented with lavender, and decorated with many rich, brightly-coloured tapestries, and with rare and delicate furniture. As he looked about for an exit, he heard a voice behind him.

"It is long since I have had any visitors, apart from my servants."

Turning, he saw Queen Miriel standing before him, dressed in a long gown of cloth of gold and silver. Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side – a legacy of the King's assault upon her of five years before. In her slender right hand she held a curiously carved silver key.

"Come, young Isildur" said the Queen, "for despite your garb and having shaved your beard, I recognize you. Follow me. It may be that fate yet smiles on you before this terrible night is done."

* * *

From his own chambers, which offered him a distant view of the Palace Garden, Admiral Minastir saw the drama unfolding below him, culminating in the destruction of the White Tree. The White Tree, Nimloth the Fair! Child of Eressea, grandchild of Valinor! Never more would it grace the Palace Garden of Armenelos!

Minastir had always been a practical man, little inclined to mysticism. Yet, he knew that to destroy the White Tree was not merely an act of blasphemy. It was a symbolic repudiation by the Men of the West of their ancient heritage, of their proud and dignified history. Even more than the cruel sacrifices by fire, even more than the construction of the foul Temple of Melkor, the murder of the White Tree was a mockery of everthing Minastir held sacrosanct.

Minastir was thankful Isildur had managed to rescue a fruit from the Tree that very night, just in the nick of time, and that he had escaped Sauron's clutches. Yet, Minastir's thankfulness did not lift the cloak of despair he felt enveloping him. He had been present when the King had pronounced his sentence of death upon the Tree, a few hours before. The courtiers present had laughed. Yes, they had laughed! Men and women both, as if it were the latest cynical joke to make the rounds of the Palace. Their corruption so disgusted him that he had not spoken to any of them since. He had fought all his life for Numenor, and for what? So that a host of vampires could bleed it dry, and vultures feast off its carcass?

His eyes burning with tears, he thought of those most responsible for the vile slaughter of Nimloth. Sauron...but how could mortal Man like Minastir strike against that foul demon? And the King...the thought of the King's haggard visage and madly-gleaming eyes turned Minastir's sorrow into white-hot anger. Pharazon the Usurper! It was he who had brought the Enemy to Numenor, who had allowed the Keepers of the Hallow to be slain, who had ordered the destruction of the White Tree! It was he who had enslaved his own people to the worship of Morgoth Bauglir! Had Queen Miriel sat upon the golden throne as she was meant to, none of this would have come to pass...

Minastir felt a steely resolve build within him. He was an old man, whose life was bound to end in time...but before it did, he would do this one thing, so that he might not be ashamed to stand in the presence of his ancestors when his soul was delivered up to them.

Leaving the door to his quarters open, Minastir stalked down the corridor towards the private chambers of the King...

* * *

"You have lost much blood" said the Queen. "I will succor your wound as best I can, but we must be quick. The guards will be here within minutes." The queen placed the silver key in her hand on a table, and then opened a small laqquered box on a credenza, which contained an ointment fragrant with the scent of the medicinal herb Athelas. Isildur knelt before her, and she reached through the tear in the fabric of Isildur's tunic and smeared some of the ointment on the wound across his back. Isildur gasped at the stinging ointment, but within moments the sharp pain subsided to a cooling sensation, and the bleeding had stopped. The Queen then poured an exlir from a curiously carved bottle into a bejeweled cup, and gave it to Isildur, who quaffed the contents thirstily. A pleasant warmth surged through his veins, and he began to feel more than half-alive again.

"Those are very crude treatments", said the Queen, as she retrieved the silver key from its tabletop. "I am still worried that you have lost so much blood, but there is nothing we can do about that now. You must follow me, and make haste."

Isildur walked behind the Queen, noting with relief that her chambers were empty. "My servants seldom spend time with me when they are not needed" she explained, tucking the silver key into her bodice. "They would rather amuse themselves in the decadent practices of those who worship the Great Enemy. Melkor, Giver of Freedom indeed...his worshippers are free to do evil, and nothing more."

The Queen sighed. "I am still faithful to Eru. One of the few, for even the greater part of those who once worshipped Morgoth out of fear have now sunk into degradation alongside their fellows. The King does not seem to know that I still reject his false idol, or he does not care, for in his arrogance he thinks that no woman can pose a serious threat to him. He said that my outburst in the Throne Room, on that dark day five years ago, was mere 'womanly weakness'. Apparently, that I was the only one present who could resist Sauron's spell makes me weak."

She frowned. "And Sauron pays me little heed, for his power has grown so great that he knows that I dare not oppose him openly, as I once did. I believe Sauron spares me from assassination only as a ploy, to maintain the appearance of a proper King and Queen in the Palace, and disguise from the people the fact that he is the true power behind the throne. "

Miriel's face twisted with bitterness. "For it has become all too apparent that Pharazon barely has any thoughts, but those that Sauron places in his addled head. However, it would not serve Sauron's purposes for the people to know the truth – the fiend still maintains a charade of being the King's loyal servant, and I am still paraded before the people alongside the King on ceremonial occasions. I would prefer death to such humiliation, but Eru forbids us to take our own lives."

She then smiled, wryly. "Since you surely seek to harm Sauron and his puppet King, and save what light is left in Numenor, I choose to risk my own life in order to save yours. I saw you cut the fruit from Nimloth the Fair, and know as well as anyone my own father's prophecy concerning its significance. My line has come to an end, for I shall be the last of it. But perhaps through the Lords of Andunie, the line of those descended from Elros Half-Elven shall not fail utterly!"

"Your Majesty..." said Isildur, but she silenced him.

"Come quickly" she said, leading him through an alcove to a great Oaken door. "Already I have consumed too much time with idle words." She opened the door, and peered out. "The corridor beyond is empty, but shall not be for long. Look you – there is a series of caves and tunnels that lead from under the Palace and past the accursed Temple of Melkor, to the open fields well east of the city. Only the true heirs to the throne know of the secret door that connects the Palace to the caves – Pharazon does not imagine its existence. I shall guide you to that door, and beneath the city, though once you are in the open you must find your own way back to Romenna."

Isildur nodded, and followed the Queen. She walked a short distance to a narrow doorway cut into the wall of the corridor, which was dressed with walls and floors of marble, and illuminated by silvered candelabra that reflected light from the mirrored ceiling. The Queen paused in front of the doorway, and gestured at it. "We shall take the servant's stairs – they descend straight into the kitchens. We shall then have to pass along a hall near the King's chambers, at the base of his tower – that is the greatest danger – and then another flight of stairs leads down to the crypts and the secret door. The King's guards will doubtless come for you up the main stair, so with luck we shall elude them for the time being."

The Queen walked quickly through the door and down the spiral staircase. Isildur followed her, his hands groping against the wall to be sure he did not trip and fall in the gloom. As they descended, they heard the shouts and iron-shod feet of many guards echoing along the corridor above. The guards went past the entrance to the servant's stair, however, straight for the Queen's chambers.

Isildur and the Queen soon came to the kitchens, which were deserted at this late hour. She led Isildur through the kitchens to an alcove which stood by the open archway to the corridor beyond. This corridor was like that which led from the Queen's chambers, but broader and higher, carpeted with rich red felt, and illuminated by giant golden candelabra. "Yonder lie the doors to the King's Chambers" said the Queen. "We must go past them if we are to reach the next flight of stairs. There are always two guardsmen detailed at the entrance to the King's Chambers – I pray they have not yet been placed on alert, or at least that they will not recognize you. How we will disguise the wound on your back, I know not, unless I can somehow distract them."

Isidur nodded, feeling worried. He looked down the corridor to the carved oaken doors, before which stood two heavily-armoured Royal Household Guardsmen, armed with wicked-looking pikes. He knew that even were he not wounded and exhausted, the fact that he was armed merely with a dagger, and lacked any body armour, would tilt the odds heavily against him if it came to open combat. He could not hope to dispatch them with a ruse, as he had their counterparts in the Palace Garden, for he knew they were under pain of death not to leave their posts by the doors to the King's Chambers during their watch.

Isildur had just focused his mind and body for a confrontation with the guards, when a sudden commotion echoed from the doors behind them ...

* * *

"Who goes there?" The bored guardsman, charged with guarding the doors to the King's pleasure rooms, knew perfectly well the identity of the giant man before him, but protocol required him to make the challenge.

"Admiral Minastir, of the King's Navy. I must see the King at once on a matter that is most urgent."

"His Eminence the High Priest came before you, on an errand to see the King" said the other guardsman, who appeared more alert than his comrade. "The Royal Steward, Lord Nuphkor, is also with them. His Eminence gave orders they were not to be disturbed."

"The Lord Admiral of the King's Navy does not take orders from the High Priest where military matters are concerned!" shouted Minastir. "Let me into the King's chambers at once, or I shall have you court martialed for obstructing one of the King's Ministers in the performance of his duty, and endangering the safety of the realm!"

Reluctantly, the guards summarily searched Minastir's robes for weapons and, finding none, opened the doors.

Minastir strode inside. As the doors closed heavily behind him, he stopped for a moment, staring with disgust at the scene in front of him. This, the lowermost of the King's chambers in his tall tower, was a large room with marble walls trimmed with gold, and lighted by braziers of polished bronze. Soft cushions of silk lay piled about, and on them lay many of the most comely youths and maidens of the Palace. They were in varying stages of undress; some appeared drugged and stupid, while others were engaged in acts that Minastir cared not to contemplate.

Towards the far side of the chamber, on a great pile of cushions, sprawled the King, who was dressed in gaudy robes of purple and cloth of gold. He appeared to be in his cups, his head lolling back and forth, a stupidly-satisfied smile on his aged face. Above the King stood Nuphkor and Sauron. Nuphkor, who five years ago had been appointed Royal Steward, was dressed in the black and cloth-of-gold trimmed robes with silver-medallioned chain that denoted his office. Sauron, who had ascended from the ancient rank of Steward to the novel station of High Priest, was dressed in robes of black and red, unadorned apart from his golden ring. The strange letters engraved on the ring gleamed brightly even from a distance, as they seemed to whenever Sauron was particularly excited or angered. Nuphkor appeared distracted by the decadent tableau formed by the youths and maidens, but Sauron was utterly indifferent to the scene. His passions were aroused only by his own purposes, and his attention was directed at the King.

"...their whelp Isildur," said Sauron, "whom I recognized, has not only murdered two of your guards, but has stolen a fruit from the accursed White Tree, no doubt to plant it in the soil of Romenna, that nest of heretics! It is an act of blasphemy against Melkor!"

Sauron stared grimly at the King. "Melkor will not look with favour on you if you allow this slight against Him to go unpunished! Isildur has escaped your guards, for the time being, but no matter. If he escapes Armenelos, then send emissaries to Romenna, and demand that they turn Isildur over to us, so that he may face justice for his crimes!"

"My leige" offered Nuphkor hesitantly, "Romenna has been well fortified over the past few years. If Amandil refuses your order to hand over his son for judgment, it may come to war. The army of Amandil pales in comparison to your own, but our troops are dispersed worldwide, and many of those stationed in Numenor are needed to maintain order across the land. With the troops we could spare, it would take a siege of some days or weeks to break down the city walls of Romenna, heavily defended as they are, and in so doing we would lose many of our loyal Men. Perhaps an assassination mission..."

Suddenly the King's bleary eyes turned from Eumendias to Minastir. "Eh? Minastir? What are you doing here, man? Come for some amusement?" he asked, cackling, gesturing to one of the comliest maidens on the pillows strewn in front of him. Without comment, Minastir strode over the prostrate forms of several drugged youths, and approached the King.

Sauron stared at the Admiral, his clear blue eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you want, Minastir?" he asked coolly. "I gave orders to the guards outside that we were not to be disturbed. This had better be important. Has there been some delay in the latest fleet of ships bearing slaves from Middle Earth for sacrifice to Melkor?"

Ignoring Sauron, Minastir focused his attention on the King. Gently thrusting one hand beneath a fold of his blue and gold robes, he said "My liege, I bear an urgent message for your ears alone. Lean closer."

Frowning, the King leaned towards Minastir.

Quick as a striking snake, Minastir unsheathed a small dagger he had hidden in the folds of his robes. "For Earendil!" he shouted, thrusting the dagger at the King.

Nuphkor, who stood beside the King, had received military training in his youth. He grasped his hands together in a fist, whipped his arms up swiftly and deflected the Admiral's stroke, then seized Minastir's wrists and tried to wrench the blade from his hands. Minastir, who was as large and strong as a bear, quickly broke Nuphkor's blocking move, thrusting the Steward's arms below his waist. Slashing upward, he gutted the man with his dagger. Nuphkor crashed to the ground, screaming in his death agony, while a growing river of blood flowed out from under him. The youths and maidens below – those who were not drugged into a stupor – looked up from their amusements and screamed shrilly. Minastir turned his attention to the King, who lay whimpering on his pillows like a dog cringing before its master.

But Sauron, who had been as still as a statue, intervened. With a move faster than the eye could see, he knocked the dagger out of Minastir's hand. Then, with his other hand he seized the Admiral by the throat and lifted him two feet above the ground! Minastir struggled vainly, his huge arms trying to break Sauron's grip, but Sauron's slender wrists and arms seemed as though forged of steel. He contemplated the Admiral coolly for a moment, and then flung Minastir across the room, sending him crashing against the wall. Minastir slumped to the ground and lay there, unconscious. Some of the youths and maidens were now whimpering, while others sobbed hysterically.

At that moment the guards, who had heard the screams echoing inside, burst through the doors. Sauron glared viciously at them, and pointed at the corpse of Nuphkor. "Is it customary for the King's bodyguards to allow armed men to enter his chambers?" he asked.

Before the terrified guards could answer, the King rose from his pillows, frothing at the mouth and howling at the top of his lungs. "Traitor!" he screamed, pointing a shaky arm at Minastir, who lay motionless on the floor. "Assassin! Fiend!" He turned to the guards. "You Fools! How could you have let him in here, bearing a dagger aimed at my heart? " spat Ar-Pharazon.

"Calm yourself, my liege" said Sauron, his voice clear and smooth. Ar-Pharazon subsided, although his body was still trembling. "You were never at risk of harm, with me standing beside you" said Sauron assuringly. He looked at the wretched corpse of the former Steward, which lay twitching at his feet. "'Tis a shame that Nuphkor perished in his attempt to save you. His loyalty was admirable, though I fear his ardour had waned as of late."

"Yes" said the King. "He feared war with Romenna? Bah! A cat might as well fear war with a mouse! Nor shall I demand anything of Amandil. Should Elendil's brat escape Armenelos and return to Romenna, there is no need for him to be surrendered for trial and judgment. I hold him guilty of murder, theft and blasphemy, and proclaim his sentence now; for slaying my guards, and stealing a fruit from the White Tree, I name Isildur Wolf's Head, an outlaw. Any Man who wishes may slay this Wolf's Head with impunity, and for the slaying he will receive a reward of five-hundred gold pieces, and my gratitude."

"A wise decision, my liege" demurred Sauron.

"And then there is this traitor, Minastir" said the King. "How can it be that I have held this viper at my bosom for so long? I know he was once friends with Elendil, yet he had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Sovereign of Numenor. He has less honour than a common thief."

"As for that infidel, your Majesty" replied, gesturing at Minastir, "I have long known he is disloyal to us." The King looked at Sauron with surprise.

"His treasonous intent was clearly evident in his mind, even though I could not grasp every detail of his thoughts" explained Sauron. "He has an Elvish bauble in his chambers, which he uses to communicate with Amandil or his vassals. He displayed it openly on a pedestal, thinking no one would recognize the thing for what it was. None of the servants or guards did, naturally, but did he really think I would not know one of Feanor's seeing stones when I saw one? The fool! I shall find this Palantir a most intriguing object of study, now that Minastir no longer has any use for it."

"In any event" continued Sauron, "He has been very useful to me, for unwittingly he has fed those arch-fiends in Romenna much false information, which has undermined their strength within this land. Thanks to that false information, they failed to take advantage of the weaknesses in our position, before we consolidated our hold on those faithful to Melkor."

Sauron frowned ruefully. "Perhaps I misjudged Minastir, for I did not think he would dare to strike openly. Though, if I have made a mistake, I confess it was in trusting the Royal Household Guard to do their duties properly, whether in guarding the White Tree or protecting your person. In truth, they are as stupid and useless and the lowest Orc." He glared at the guards once again, and they turned pale upon realizing they had incurred the wrath of the High Priest of Melkor.

"Still" smiled Sauron, "I can suggest a better use for Minastir than leaving him to rot in a dungeon, or sending his head to the chopping block. Melkor always finds the scent of burning heretics to be sweet."

"Yes, yes!" cackled the King. "Guards! Drag this traitor out of here and to one of the stable carts! We shall take this swine Minastir to the Temple of Melkor, and Lord Sauron will know how to deal with him! I shall accompany you myself, so that I may watch Minastir burn along with the White Tree!"

* * *

Isildur was horrified at the words he heard issuing from the King's chambers. He would have sprung from the kitchens and down the corridor to help his father's old friend, but the Queen restrained him.

"No!" she said. "Minastir is a brave man, but you cannot help him. I heard Sauron's voice in that room, and I have seen at other times that he is far stronger than any mortal Man, for all his lithesome build. If a great bear of a man like Minastir could not best Sauron, how could you? Remember you came here to rescue a fruit from the White Tree. Let not Minastir's sacrifice be in vain by throwing away your own life, and the last fruit of Nimloth the Fair as well! Your duty is to Numenor, whatever your own wishes may be."

Isildur frowned, but then nodded reluctantly. He knew the Queen was right, although he felt great shame well up within him at the thought of abandoning Minastir to his fate. He looked at the Queen. "Your Majesty" he said, his voice laden with sorrow, "I know what you said of the route to the crypts below, but I must ask you if we can make a diversion first. There is something in Minastir's chambers of great value to my father – the seeing stone mentioned by the Dark One. It would be disastrous for it to fall into Sauron's hands. I must seek to reclaim it before leaving here, if at all possible."

The Queen looked towards the corridor. "Wait!" she said, drawing back into depths of the alcove.

Two guards walked past slowly, dragging the body of Minastir, now as pale as death. Sauron and the King followed. Isildur was tempted to leap out with his dagger and try to finish what Minastir had started. But, he knew that with Sauron present, his attempt would end just as vainly as Minastir's. His eye caught the gleam from Sauron's Ring, which Elendil had told him embodied the essence of the Dark Lord's power. Isildur, vowing to avenge Minastir, swore the day would come when he would cut the precious bauble from Sauron's foul hand, even if it cost him his own life.

After they had disappeared down the corridor, the Queen whispered "Now that the corridor is unguarded, it is possible. Minastir's chambers are but a short distance from here. I shall lead you to them, so you may take this object you seek – but then we must make for the stair to the crypts, and quickly!"

* * *

Isildur and the Queen followed the stairs down to the dark crypts below. It had not taken long to retrieve the Palantir, for as Sauron had said it was displayed quite openly in Minastir's chambers. Apparently, Minastir had felt that no one would recognize the Palantir for what it was, merely thinking it some exotic gem, and so felt that there was no need to keep it hidden. Yet he had underestimated Sauron's esoteric knowledge. Isildur thanked himself that Sauron, in his arrogance, had not bothered to collect the Palantir before proceeding to the Temple.

Still, Isildur, in his wounded condition, found the Palantir to be a heavy burden. For all his youth, he had to struggle to keep up with the Queen's pace. At length, reaching the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a series of large, dank corridors carved out of the living rock, and dimly lit by occasional torches mounted in brass holders along the wall. "These are the crypts beneath the Palace, connecting the dungeons to each other" said the Queen. After walking for a short distance, the Queen stopped, and moved her right hand along the wall of rock. When she pushed at a slight protrusion, it shifted aside, revealing a small keyhole.

Smiling, the Queen took the silver key she had kept tucked inside her bodice, and pushed it into the keywhole, turning it. With a low groan, an entire section of wall, twice the breadth of a man, swung back, revealing a secret passage that stretched ahead into darkness. A gust of stale, musty air blew out of the passage, causing the torches along the walls of the corridor to flicker. Motioning to Isildur to take one of the torches out of its holders, she retrived the key, stepped into the passage, and waited for him. Torch in hand, he followed her. She tucked the key back inside her bodice, felt with her hand along the nitre-encrusted wall inside the passage, and pushed at another protrusion. The door swung back into place with a dull thud. As the Queen led the way, Isildur held the torch so that they could see amidst the inky blackness.

"This passage is below the level of the Sea" explained the Queen, "which is why it is so dank. It leads into a series of caves that lie under the city. The route we must take used to lead directly under the city into the open fields. Now it also leads past the accursed Temple of Melkor, lying as it does in the heart of Armenelos. When Sauron built the Temple, some of his workers came upon one of these caves. Knowing nothing of the connection between the caves and the Palace, they simply added a few ventilation slits in the temple walls and attached them by tunnels to the caves. Thus Melkor's worshippers need not die from lack of air, which the flame of his altar would otherwise draw out of the windowless building. 'Tis a shame they had such foresight, for not only do the shafts allow Men to live within the Temple, but we must pass within a stone's throw of the accursed place before you reach the surface." Isildur shuddered at the thought, but said nothing.

Isildur lost all track of time as they walked through the twisting passages and caves, threading their way through the maze with the Queen's guidance. He felt an increasingly strong gust of wind, as if air was being sucked out of the passages. More ominously, he began to hear a dark, deep chanting in many voices, a sound resonant with ancient evil. It seemed to Isildur as if the very darkness of the caverns were alive, and watching him with malevolent intent.

"The chanting of Melkor's priests" said the Queen. "Sauron established his priesthood five years ago, as you know. Until recently they oversaw the public sacrifices at the altars Sauron had established throughout the city. Now, they are to conduct all sacrifices within the Temple. Since its completion, some weeks ago, the priests have spent all their time within its thick walls. From down here, I have heard them chant new blasphemies that they had not uttered in public, and watched them at work on fell sorceries they believe hidden. Though the disciples of Melkor are cruel and decadent in public view, it is behind closed doors, and now within the Temple, that the true abominations are practiced."

"I have already seen those abominations carried out in the Throne Room" said Isildur, recalling with a chill down his spine the ghastly scene of five years before.

"Aye" said the Queen, "the burnings are now to be carried out within the Temple, but since its completion I have seen even worse things, of which I will not speak." Isildur regarded the Queen with pity, but said nothing.

As the chanting grew louder, Isildur noticed a fiery light pouring down from a gap in the cavern walls, upwards and to his left. "One of the ventilation shafts" said the Queen. "Will you tarry and look at what goes on within Morgoth's Temple? Or shall I lead you past it, so that your sleep may remain free from new nightmares?"

Isildur's heart told him to walk past the shaft without a second glance. Yet his mind could not resist the temptation of curiosity... "I will look, though only a brief glance" said Isildur. Smiling grimly, the Queen took the torch from him, and he crept up the shaft.

As he climbed, Isildur had the sudden fear that the Queen had abandoned him, and that he would be trapped forever within the dark maze of tunnels. But glancing back, he could still see the flickering light of her torch. Ashamed of himself, Isildur continued crawling up the shaft, until at last he came upon a window of sorts, sealed with solid bars of iron.

The noise from the chanting, echoing along the shaft, was almost deafening. Looking though the window, Isildur saw a vast, circular room of white marble, covered by an immense silver dome. He had seen the Temple from the outside on his journey into Armenelos, and for all its foulness he had marveled that anyone could construct such a vast edifice so quickly. Truly, he thought to himself, Sauron's power, or that of his magic Ring, was beyond the reckoning of Men. Ar-Pharazon was to fool to believe he could a control a dark being of the elder world.

The sanctum of the Temple was dominated by an immense flame that seemed to grow out of a hole or bowl in the centre of the floor, as if it came from the very bowels of the earth. Thus, even though it was nightime outside, the whole interior of the building was bathed in a reddish glow, although shadows could be seen behind the massive pillars that supported the base of the dome. A number of ramps led from the temple floor down the sides of the bowl to the flame. On the near side of the room, Isildur could see hundreds of priests of Melkor bent on their knees, their robes black, their heads shaven, chanting words of nameless evil in their low, deep voices.

Now that Isildur had reached the upper edge of the shaft, the chant was not quite so deafening as it had been farther down, where its echoes seemed amplified. Within the vast space of the Temple, the chanting was an everpresent, ominous sound. But other sounds could be heard. To his horror, Isildur saw that countless victims were manacled to the walls of the Temple. All bore the scars of varying degress of torment, and all were doubtless aware that they were soon to be sacrificed to the Lord of Darkness. Of those whose tongues were still intact, some screamed hysterically, and some wailed with despair. Others laughed shrilly, the balm of madness having overcome their sorrow.

Sick to his stomach, Isildur was about to turn around and crawl back down the shaft, when he heard new sounds over the chanting of the priests. These sounds belonged to the figures he could see striding toward the flame, accompanied by more of the priests of Melkor. With his Elven-keen eyes, Isildur could clearly see the figures of the King, Sauron, and the two guards from the Palace, still bearing the body of Minastir. He now also saw the White Tree lying on its side, on the far side of the flame. Apparently, it had been hauled into the Temple by the priests after the King's guards had dragged it from the Palace Garden. Sauron's high, clear voice echoed throughout the vast room, which seemed designed to emphasize the pitch and tone of his voice in particular.

"...too harsh with this traitor in your chambers, my liege. It appears he expired as his carcass was being dragged here by your guards."

Silently, Isildur gave thanks that at least his father's old friend Minastir would not be thrown alive into the flames.

"More's the pity" said the King, his voice sounding muffled by comparison. He seemed to stare viciously at the guards.

"I'm afraid it cannot be helped, your Majesty" replied Sauron. "In any case, let us turn our attention to happier thoughts. You have long lamented the enslavement of your ancestors to the Valar, symbolized by the accursed White Tree. Melkor has broken the chains that bound you to the Valar, and returned to your freedom and dignity. Now, witness the destruction of the last emblem of Numenor's shame, and the birth of a proud new era!"

He gestured at the priests, who held the White Tree on ropes. They pulled on the ropes and, with some difficulty, dragged the Tree to the edge of the vast flame. Pushing at it with all their might, they caused it to slide down the ramp, into the fire.

As Isildur watched the great pillar of fire consume Nimloth the Fair, he felt a lump in his throat, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. The leaves and fruits were devoured immediately, but the bark took some minutes to disappear, its smooth skin wrinkling and singeing horribly in the hellfire that surged up from the pit. A high pitched hissing and screaming filled the air, blending with that of the victims awaiting sacrifice, as if the Tree were issuing its death cry. Vast clouds of thick, inky black ash and smoke now rose up from the flame and out through the hole in the domed roof of the Temple, staining the dark blue of the night sky.

Over the noises from the Tree, Isildur could hear Ar-Pharazon's deranged cackling, a throaty, disgusting sound. Sauron said nothing, but the look of triumph on his face was unmistakable even from this distance. Isildur clutched the cloth bag hidden in his robes, the importance of his mission driven home to him now more clearly than ever. In spite of the efforts of Sauron and the King, one fruit of the White Tree still lived. Isildur vowed that when the time was right, he would plant it himself, and the line of Elros and the people of Numenor would flourish once again.

At length, the Tree was utterly consumed. "Well done" said the King, still cackling, "well done. Another blow to the false oracle Eru, and the treacherous Valar! Now my House has been freed from the false prophecy of my thrice-accursed uncle, Ar-Iziladun! I decree that henceforth, the heraldic design of my House shall no longer be the absurd white tree on its black field, which I repudiate utterly: it shall be a black snake on a red field, symbolizing the smoke curling up from the eternal fires of Melkor! Shadow and flame!"

"An excellent idea, my liege" said Sauron, nodding approvingly. "And now that the fires of Melkor have been whetted, the time has come for the first sacrifice of Men in His sacred Temple! We shall begin with this carrion" said Sauron, gesturing at Minastir's body, "for while Melkor prefers living victims, he will not spurn dead ones." He turned to his priests. "Throw him in!"

Without a word, two priests of Melkor took the body from the guards, dragged it to the edge of the great bowl and, in a maneuver at which they appeared much practiced - though most likely upon living and bound victims - they cast Minastir's body down a ramp that led into the flames. It was enveloped and consumed within moments.

"Good riddance" spat the King. "Such will be the fate of all those who violate their oaths to me."

Sauron then nodded at the guards. "And what of these two fools, your Majesty? Were they not sworn to protect you? And yet their carelessness nearly cost you your life." The guards shrank away from Sauron, aware that they were greatly outnumbered by the priests of Melkor.

"Indeed" replied Ar-Pharazon coldly, "A life that Melkor shall preserve eternally, so long as I serve Him well. And these dogs nearly deprived me of it! Do with them as you see fit, Lord Sauron."

Smiling, Sauron signaled to his black-robed priests who, quick as lightning, knocked the guards' weapons away, and bound them hand and foot with black ropes. As they dragged the screaming guards toward the flame, and the King's cackling once again filled the Temple, Isildur turned away, soul-shaken. He had seen enough horror this night to last a dozen lifetimes.

Trying to ignore the briefly higher-pitched screams behind him, which were suddenly cut short, Isildur crept back down the shaft, the evil chanting of the priests again echoing loudly in his ears. He could still see the Queen's torch, a beacon far below. At length, he stepped out of the shaft and stood once again in the tunnel, in front of the Queen.

Queen Miriel smiled ruefully. "You seem to have aged ten years in the past half an hour, Isildur. Yet now you know why I still worship Eru in my heart, even if all my servants and courtiers have given themselves up to Morgoth. No one who has seen what takes place inside that Temple could ever worship the Great Enemy, unless he were born with the soul of a fiend. I would rather live what time is left to me cleanly, than defile myself in pursuit of a false promise of eternal life."

Isildur nodded, silently. Reclaiming the torch from her, his voice hoarse and shaken, he said "Lead me from this place of horror, my leige."

She turned, and he followed her for some hours, the breeze now strongly in front of them, as the chanting from the Temple diminished behind them. His wound was beginning to throb with pain once again, and he began to doubt that he could endure his ordeal for much longer. Yet he pressed on, aware that his duty mattered above all else.

At length the sound of the chanting faded away entirely, the breeze grew ever stronger, and the passage began to lead uphill. Ahead Isildur could seen a thin gash in the darkness, through which poured the clean light of the stars and the Moon. Sighing with relief, Isildur came at length to the exit. He and the Queen found themselves at the edge of a narrow opening, no wider than a man. They passed though it, and found themselves on the ledge jutting from the top of a hillock perhaps fifty feet in height, in the middle of fertile plains that stretched for twenty miles east of the capital. The dark shadow of the mountains that separated Armenelos from Romenna lay on the Eastern horizon. Here and there on the plain, cottages and smallholdings showed as dimly flickering lights. Isildur was appalled by the mocking tranquility of the homely scene, for he could look with nothing but horror on those who worshipped Melkor.

Turning to the Queen, Isildur said "Your Majesty, I beg you not to return to the Palace of Armenelos! For it has been stained forever by the worship of Morgoth, and is now a place of evil. We could easily steal a horse or two from an inn on the plain hereabouts, and then ride hard for Romenna. Within two days time I could have you safe and sound in the palace of my father and grandfather, and you would never have to submit again to that fiend in the guise of a Man who styles himself High Priest – or the one who calls himself your King!"

Miriel stared silently at Isildur, and he saw a tear running down her cheek. Sadly, she replied "You can see for yourself, Isildur, that I could have escaped from the Palace at any time, and still could at any time in the future if I wish it. But I am the last of the direct line of Kings and Queens flowing from the elder sons and daughters of Elros. My place is in the Palace, and the city, that has ever been the home of my line since the foundation of this land. My destiny does not lie with you, son of Elendil, though I admire your courage and trust in your victory. I foresee that the day will come when you are a great King in your own right, and your name will rebound throughout the ages. Yea, I foresee that from the seed of lost Nimloth that you bear in your cloak shall someday sprout forth a new White Tree, even as the blood of Numenor shall purge itself of this evil and renew itself in the light. But my duty, my place lies in Armenelos, and there I shall remain." Leaning towards Isildur, she kissed him gently on his forehead.

"Now go, brave Isildur!" she cried, "for you are still hunted, and far from home, and your mission is not complete until the last fruit of Nimloth lies safely within the guarded walls of your grandfather's palace at Romenna!"

Isildur would have tried again to persuade the Queen to accompany him, in spite of her words. Yet, he could see in her eyes that her heart was already set. Wordlessly, he took her right hand and kissed it with devotion. Then he pressed the torch into her hand. "Farewell, your Majesty" said he. "I pray you are not the last in the direct line of Kings and Queens. Whether you are or no, you have shown your true character is no less than that of our ancestors, Earendil the Mariner and Elros Half-Elven! Farewell!"

His face lined with sorrow, Isildur turned away from the Queen and descended the hill towards the plain below. He never saw her again as a mortal Man.


	8. Revelation and Prophecy

**VIII.) Revelation and Prophecy **

In the spring of the year 3319 of the Second Age, fifty-seven years to the day after the so-called Great Victory over him, and nearly two years after the burning of the White Tree, Sauron, standing in the King's Chambers, gazed out a window, and listened with veiled anger to the King's abuse.

"You have promised me eternal life, slave!" shouted Ar-Pharazon, who lay on his bed, decked out in his favourite robes of purple and gold. "Look at my face! Is this the face of an immortal? Is this the face of a living god? Look at me and answer truly, dog of Mordor!"

Sauron turned to the aging King and stared at the Man with his clear blue eyes, his chiseled features betraying none of the mounting displeasure he felt underneath. Fifty-seven years was the merest fraction of the time that Sauron had walked the Earth, but it felt more than long enough to have to have endured the threats and rants of Ar-Pharazon the Golden.

Schooling his face to a look of inquisitive concern, Sauron replied "I must confess, my liege, it is not yet the face of an immortal." Given the ever-deepening lines on the King's haggard face alone, he could hardly say anything else.

Moreover, the day had not gone well for Ar-Pharazon. That morning, as he was leaving the chamber in which he customarily held his nightly debaucheries with the Palace's youths and maidens, Ar-Pharazon had collapsed suddenly. His doctors had quickly attended to him, and revived him in his scarlet, silk-cushioned bed.

But after performing their mummery over him, they had talked with glum faces amongst themselves. Then, the bravest one of them informed the King that he had suffered from a seizure of his heart. Moreover, given his age of two-hundred and fourteen years, he could only expect more such seizures in the future. In the learned doctor's opinion, Ar-Pharazon the Golden could not expect to live more than another few years before one of the seizures brought his time on Earth to an end.

That doctor's severed head now decorated a pike by the gates of the Palace. Sauron had been summoned from his Temple by one of the King's red-tunic'd messengers, who had informed him that the King demanded his immediate presence in the Royal chambers.

Sauron had offered the best response he could, in the circumstances. Yet, it appeared that the King was no more amused by Sauron's reply than he had been by the late doctor's.

"Not _yet_?" shrieked Ar-Pharazon, his face flushing red. "Not _yet_? When will it be the face of an immortal then, eh? When will that be, you lying, incompetent fool! Speak!"

Sauron glared at the King, his fair face twisted with wrath. The script on his golden ring flashed brightly. "_SILENCE!_" he shouted, in a suddenly deep voice that shook the room to its foundations.

Just as suddenly, the King's mood shifted from anger to contriteness. "Forgive me!" he whimpered, teary-eyed, a trail of drool running down his bearded chin. "Forgive me! I have lost my head...I have..." Ar-Pharazon started whining incoherently.

Sauron then schooled his face to a look of warm benevolence and concern, the helpful friend and counselor to the poor old Man. "Nay, forgive me, my liege" he said, his voice once again clear and smooth. "I should not have lost my temper with you a moment ago. After all, it is _I_ who serve _you_. And I can well understand your own mood, for you have had a frightening experience today, and those imbecile doctors did you more harm than good."

"The doctors...but are they right?" cried Ar-Pharazon. "How can they be right? You said that if I served Melkor loyally, I would live forever! Is that not so? Have I not served Him loyally?"

Sauron appeared to ponder the King's words for a few moments, and then looked at him, a slow, confiding smile spreading over his smooth features.

"You have served Him loyally, my liege. Indeed, you have served Him more faithfully than any Man who ever lived. Melkor is well pleased with you. He is so pleased, that as I was conducting His rites in the Temple this morning, I had a vision in which Melkor Himself appeared to me. He had words to say concerning you!"

"Did He? Did He?" said the King, his lip trembling. "What did He say? Please!"

"He said" intoned Sauron in his fairest, clearest voice, "that the time has come for me to reveal to Ar-Pharazon the Golden the secret of eternal life. The secret that shall turn him from a mere mortal Man, into a God himself!"

The King was ecstatic. "He did? He did! I knew He would!" he cried. "Tell me, what is it? You must tell me!" pleaded the King, looking for all the world like a child about to receive a coveted present.

"It is quite simple, Your Majesty. So simple that you will deem it obvious when I reveal it to you. Do you recall the chronicle of your ancestor, King Tar-Atanamir the Great? He who received emissaries from the treacherous Valar, when the Men of this isle first began to grumble openly that they had been cheated of the gift of eternal life granted to the Elves?"

"Yes, yes!" spat Ar-Pharazon, his old impatience and confidence beginning to reassert itself. "What of it?"

"Do you recall" said Sauron, "that the messengers of the Valar informed the King that he should not seek to journey to the Undying Lands of Valinor, in vain hope of life eternal? They said that it was not the Undying Lands that made those that dwell therein deathless. Rather, '_the deathless that dwell therein have hallowed the land_.' I believe those were the messenger's words, if they were reported correctly in the chronicle. I believe the messenger even told your ancestor that if mortal Men set foot in the Undying Lands, they would die all the sooner_, 'as moths in a light too strong and steadfast'_."

"Yes, I heard all of that from my tutor, ages ago" snapped Ar-Pharazon. "What is the secret?"

"Can you not guess, my liege? As with many things, the Valar mixed truth with falsehood to deceive Men. For it is true that the Valar, their Maiar servants, and the Elves, are deathless no matter the land in which they dwell. But, it is not true that the Undying Lands do not confirm life eternal on those who dwell within them. The ultimate secret is this: the Undying Lands are so infused with the immortal essence of those who dwell therein that, should a mortal Man set foot on their shores, he becomes at once an immortal like them!"

The King appeared astonished. Sauron smiled. "It is for _this_ reason" continued Sauron, 'and not some special dispensation of the false oracle Eru, that your ancestor Earendil the Mariner became immortal when he set foot on the shore of the Undying Lands three and a half thousand years ago. Once in Valinor, he was bound to become immortal whether the Valar wished it or not! They sent him up into the skies in his ship, and banned him from ever again setting foot in mortal lands, so that he could not reveal this secret to mortal Men!"

The King stared up at Sauron, enraptured.

"And" continued Sauron, "it is for _this_ reason that the Ban of the Valar was issued. For they know that if all the mortal race invaded the lands of Valinor, mortals would become immortal themselves; and to this the Valar, who desire immortality for themselves, the Maiar spirits, and their Elvish pets alone, are unalterably opposed. They know there is so much more vision and strength of will inherent in Men than in Elves that, should Men ever seize control of the Undying Lands, they will displace the Valar and Maiar, and rule as the new Gods of Valinor! And at this Melkor would be well pleased, for He longs to see the rebellious Valar and Maiar and their Elvish lackeys punished, while those Men who have been loyal to Him take their place as Gods in their own right!"

"By Melkor!" shouted the King, exultant. He leapt out of his bed, all his vigour seemingly restored. "By the fiends! This has gone from being the worst day of my life, to being the greatest! I have only to defy the ban of the Valar and set foot in the Undying Lands..." For some minutes, Ar-Pharazon laughed like a young Man, delirious with joy. Eternal life would soon be his!

But then Ar-Pharazon grew silent, and frowned, his joy tempered by consideration of what was involved in such a feat. "Mark you" said the King, "there are two obstacles to my attaining life eternal. First, the treacherous Valar have girdled the Undying Lands with a belt of enchanted islands, which lie between our isle of Numenor and the land of Aman, wherein lies Valinor. They have cursed them with their magics, so that it is well known that while Elvish ships may sail safely between Valinor and Middle-Earth, mortal ships that seek Valinor dash themselves to pieces on the rocks of those isles. More than one Man of Numenor has defied the Ban of the Valar, if only out of a longing to gaze upon the Undying Lands, only for the wreckage of his ship to wash against our shores months later."

"And" continued Ar-Pharazon, "there is a second problem. Even should I navigate the Enchanted Isles, and sail through the Bay of Eldamar to set foot upon the shores of Aman, how will I return? For when my ancestor Earendil accomplished this feat, the Valar, as you yourself pointed out, lifted him up into the skies, and now he may never set foot again in the lands of Men. Will they lift me into the skies too? Or will they bind me with magic chains and make me their immortal prisoner? What is to be done, Lord Sauron?

Sauron appeared contemplative. Then, after a time, he offered a reassuring smile. "Both excellent points, my liege. As it happens, I have solutions for both problems. The first problem, the Enchanted Isles, has a simple remedy. For my skill in lore is far greater than that of any Elf or even High Elf, and I can easily craft for you a device that any of your sailors could use to navigate their way safely through the Enchanted Isles."

"As for the second problem, what to do about the hostility of the Valar once you arrive upon the shores of the Undying Lands...the solution is more ambitious, but I have already given it to you. I told you that a great host of Men, could they but sail past the Enchanted Isles, could seize control of Aman from the Valar and their servants, and rule the land as Gods themselves!"

"A host..." whispered Ar-Pharazon. "You mean..."

"Yes, my liege" smiled Sauron. "A Host. Your Host."

"My Host" repeated Ar-Pharazon. The King then drew himself up to his full height, years seemingly dropping from his withered face as he looked up at Sauron. "My Host" he said exultantly, in a firm, commanding voice. "My Army. My Navy. The Army and Navy of Numenor, Lord of the Seas and Lord of the Earth, under the command of King Ar-Pharazon the Golden! The mightiest armada ever assembled in the history of the world! One that will dwarf even the armada I sent against you before you swore fealty to me, fifty-seven years ago!"

"Yes, my liege" answered Sauron. "Your armada defeated and tamed me, it brought Sauron of Mordor into your loyal service. I well recognize when I am bested, and have long been proud to serve my King, master of the world, soon to be a God, the King of Gods himself!"

Sauron raised his long arms, and lowered his voice, to emphasize the import of his words. "For the time of Melkor's return is at hand! Melkor has tolerated the Valarian rebels thus far, only because from their high seat they order the rythyms and cycles of the World. Were their places left vacant, the World would descend back into the chaos from which it was born. Melkor could not find those both numerous and deserving enough to rule Valinor and govern the Circles of the World in the place of the Valar. The days when He created new races have long since past; and I myself, after all, am but a lone servant, and cannot take the place of all the Valar in my own person. But, now _you_ have emerged, my King! You have embraced the darkness, have led your people away from the false light of the Valar, and down the shadowed path of truth. Melkor now deems that he need tolerate the Valar's rebellion no longer, for he believes that in you, and the Men of Numenor, he has found the replacement for the Valar that he has long sought!"

"Magnificent!" laughed the King, delighted to have won Melkor's favour.

"Of course" cautioned Sauron, lowering his arms in a demure gesture, "Melkor respects strength alone. He believes you are worthy - yet even so, you must pass one final test in order to prove yourself to Him. You must win your way to Taniquetl, Mount Everwhite, by your own strength of arms. You will, naturally, have His grace if the proper sacrifices are made. But, when He sees that you have broken down the doors of Manwe's Palace, He will deem the Valar dethroned. At that moment, the Hour of Doom, Melkor shall come forth from the Void. In his wrath he will smite the Valar utterly. No trace of their presence shall remain. Then He will enthrone you, Ar-Pharazon the Golden, as King of the Gods, to rule within the Circles of the Word forever!"

Ar-Pharazon was speechless, tears of joy rolling down his withered cheeks.

"Of course," continued Sauron, "Melkor has set no small challenge for you, my liege. You shall indeed require the mightiest armada ever assembled, if you are to make war against the Valar and their servants. For the Valar, Maiar and High Elves are powerful, and they are proud and stubborn. Only with a mighty struggle, and the grace of Melkor, shall the armies of Ar-Pharazon the Golden defeat them."

"And defeat them we shall!" shouted Ar-Pharazon, triumphant. "We must recall to Numenor every one of our ships, which we have dispatched around the World. We shall muster every Man of Numenor, from the youngest lads to the oldest grandfathers who are capable of bearing a pike or a spear! We shall build new ships to accommodate our new soldiers! We shall recall all our armies from active duty, and muster them at the harbour of Andunie, for of all our harbours it lies closest to Valinor."

"And, speaking of Andunie" continued the King, his voice darkening with anger, "I doubt very much the infidel Lords of that place can be trusted to support our venture against the Valar, when they have worked to support heresy and Elf-friendship in this land. They have even sheltered that Wolf's Head Isildur at Romenna, so that no assassin has been able to claim the bounty I placed on him. And thanks to them, the presence of foul Nimloth has not been extirpated from our soil. How shall we deal with Amandil and his brats, Lord Sauron? "

"A wise question, your Majesty" replied Sauron with a frown.

Sauron nursed a keen hatred of the Lords of Andunie. They had insulted and abused his loyal followers; they had refused the worship of Melkor; they sheltered their fellow heretics at Romenna; they had sought to disrupt the efforts of Melkor's priests to convert the people to the new religion; they had not allowed their brat Isildur to face justice for his theft of the Fruit of Nimloth. Isildur – for it must have been him - had even managed to retrieve the Palantir from Minastir's chamber, right under Sauron's nose. That was as almost as grevious as his preserving the seed of Nimloth, for Sauron had long wished to study the Palantir's secrets, once he no longer had any use for the late Admiral of the Fleet. In all these things, Amandil and his offspring had dared to defy him. Sauron would not tolerate such insolence from anyone, and least of all from mere mortals.

"The fact is this" continued Sauron, gravely. "Amandil is your vassal, and you his liege-lord. If you command him to muster an army and send it to war under your banner, he must obey, no matter his own views. If he refuses, he is a traitor, and his life will be forefeit. If his son and grandsons support his refusal, as they doubtless would, they will also be traitors. Therefore, when the muster of our soldiers is well nigh complete, and our armies at their strongest, send a herald to Amandil, and demand that he turn over to you every Man in Romenna capable of bearing arms. If he and his heirs will not assent to this; then dispatch your own Men against him, and cleanse him and his accursed brood from the face of this Earth!" Sauron's eyes glittered, and the script of his golden ring flashed brightly.

"Yes" said the King, somberly, "I have long chafed at the presence of that heretic Amandil and his brats in this land. He is no doubt fool enough to seek some pretext to refuse my summons. No matter – he is already a heretic, and also a minor felon, in that he shelters a Wolf's Head. If he does not comply with my commands, to the letter, then he will be a traitor as well. I shall have all the cause I need to move against him openly!"

Ar-Pharazon laughed at the thought, and then looked up at Sauron. "How long will all these preparations take, Lord Sauron? Your crafting of our navigational device, and the muster of our armies and navies?"

Sauron appeared contemplative. "For the device, one month. The muster can begin at the same time I start work on the device. Between the recall of our forces, and the muster, training and equipping of our additional forces, and the building of new ships for them, I should think some five months if our armourers and shipbuilders, and their slaves, work night and day."

"Then you will commence work at once, and I shall command the recall and muster of our forces to begin forthwith!" cried the King. "I shall summon a council of war to discuss with my generals and admirals our strategy and tactics for attaining victory over the enemy. The maps of Valinor those High Elvish fools long ago gave my ancestors as gifts shall at last prove useful! And in five months, we shall set sail for Valinor, and my destiny!"

"Indeed you shall fulfill your destiny, my liege. I shall begin work at once" said Sauron. Smiling again, and bowing, he turned from the King and strode out of the room towards the many tasks that awaited him.

* * *

Staring out the window of his chamber at the starry skies of the night, Amandil was deep in contemplation. Having recently passed his one-hundred and ninety-seventh birthday, he felt every day of his long years bearing down on him like a heavy weight. For in recent months, events had taken a new, ever more disturbing course.

Every week, refugees sought sanctuary in Romenna. If their intentions were honourable, they were always admitted to the city - after they had endured close questioning by the guards, to ensure they were not spies or sabouteurs. These refugees carried word of great armies being mustered, of many ships of war being recalled, summoned to the harbour of Andunie.

There was chaos in the land, they said, for in recent months practically all the people seemed to have been infected by an even greater madness than the worship of Melkor. There was much wild revelling, and fighting, and slaying too, with many acts of depravity, as if the people of Numenor were now as wild and lawless as the dark god they served. Death came to the people in many guises, grim and terrible, and they cursed themselves and everyone about them in their misery. Only within the swelling camps of the King's armies was there order, and that was only enforced by the axe and the gallows, which were frequently applied to unruly conscripts.

Amandil sighed, and then turned and headed towards his bed. His wife had died in childbirth long ago, and he had slept alone ever since. Lying down on the soft mattress, he felt a great weariness come over him. Soon, he slipped into a deep, dark sleep.

There is never any sense of passage of time in a deep sleep, so Amandil could not say precisely when the dream began. In his dream, he found himself hovering high up in the air, far above the Earth. It was as if he were a great bird, a hawk or an eagle, although he must have been much higher than even the mightiest bird could fly. It was daytime, and glancing down it appeared as if the whole Western half of the great disc of the world were laid out beneath him. All about lay the glittering blue Sea, wisps of cloud rising up from it here, only to plunge back down to it in rainfall there. Beneath him lay the emerald green isle of Numenor, and he could clearly see every city and town. There was quaint Romenna in the East, and mighty Armenelos in the Centre, and fair Andunie to the West, and many other towns to the North and South. In the heart of the island stood Mount Meneltarma, its grassy slopes rippling in the sea breeze.

Amandil looked to the East, and there he saw the vast sweep of Middle Earth, cold and gray in the far North, then pale green with forests farther South; below that the land was stained brown and beige with the grasses and sands of the deserts of Near Harad, and farther South still was the mighty dark green jungle of Far Harad. Strewn along the coast were the city-colonies and settlements belonging to Numenor. Amandil could also see the havens of the Elves by the Gulf of Lune to the North, and colonies of the Elves scattered amongst the Northern forests. But much of the land was empty, although here and there the cooking fires and rude huts of the wild Men of Middle Earth spotted the landscape.

Then, Amandil looked to the West, and to his delight, beyond the misty barrier of the Enchanted Isles, he saw the Undying Lands themselves! They were as they had been described in many songs and stories of the High Elves. There lay the emerald jewel of Tol Eressea in the Bay of Eldamar, the beacon of the White Tower of Avallone clearly visible. On the far shores of the Bay lay fair Aqualonde of the Teleri Sea Elves, its white houses and gilded towers ornamented with gleaming pearls and the marbled blues of lapis lazuli.

There was the Calacirya, the Pass of Light, in which stood the great white and pink marble fortress of Tirion, home of the Deep Elves, the Noldor. The mighty wall of the Pelori mountains rimmed the Bay to the North and South, stretching the whole length and breath of the coast of Aman. Only through the Calacirya could one advance into the interior. Beyond the Pass, and the Mere of Shadows, Elendil could see the deep green plains, enchanted forests and sparkling lakes of Valinor itself. He could see the hill where once the shining Two Trees had stood, before the dawning of Sun and Moon. There was the golden city of Valimar, home of the Vanyar Light Elves, who had but rarely been seen by Men, and home of many of the Valar themselves. Above all stood Taniquetl, Mount Everwhite, highest mountain in the World. From Oliosse, the uttermost summit of Taniquetl's vast, snowy peak, a great beacon of pure white light shone forth – the Seat of Manwe and Varda, the King and Queen of the Valar.

Amandil gazed at this fair scene enraptured. He had, in the past, used his Palantir to gaze longingly upon Avallone and the mountainous coast of Valinor beyond. Yet now, the entire sweep of the Undying Lands appeared before him! He felt blessed to have seen, if only in a vision, a sight that so many Men had longed for in vain.

But then Amandil felt compelled to tear his eyes away from the Undying Lands, and look once again to the East. Thought it had somehow been veiled from his sight before, now he could clearly see Mordor, the Black Land of Sauron. Shadowy mountains rimmed its borders, while barren plains of ash and dust littered the interior. At the heart of the realm lay Orodruin, where Sauron had forged his One Ring, centuries before. A great column of black smoke ever issued forth from its fiery interior, covering the lands below in perpetual twilight. Amid the plains, Elendil could see through the shadows the vague shapes of vast armies of Orcs and wild Men. Their true numbers were hidden from those beyond Mordor by the encompassing Mountains of Shadow. In the North of Mordor, Amandil could see the Barad-dur, the pitch-black fortress of Sauron, rising battlement upon battlement, pinnacle upon pinnacle, more than a mile above the plains below. Amandil was both awestruck and terrified when he saw the immense fortress, which could never have been reared by the hands of Men. He could see that the Barad-dur far surpassed in scale the Temple of Melkor, or any other building ever known to Men.

The Temple of Melkor! Why had he not seen its black stain of its smokes when he had earlier gazed upon Numenor? As Elendil wondered this, he noticed that the great shadowy cloud that spewed forth from Orodruin was beginning to spread beyond the borders of Mordor. North, South, East, West, it grew in all directions, covering all lands in darkness. Soon the whole of Middle Earth was under the sway of the Shadow, save only the scattered havens and colonies of the Elves to the North.

But the Shadow was not done. Gazing downwards, Amandil could see that the Shadow crept west over the Sea, until it had encompassed the whole of Numenor. Now he could see the Temple of Melkor, the foul smokes and reeks that ever spewed forth from it even darker than the Shadow. Yet still the Shadow was not done; westward it crept, until it came to the misty borders of the Enchanted Isles, which seemed to form a barrier to its further progress.

Then, Amandil noticed the mighty armada of ships and soliders that had been assembled by the harbour of his old home of Andunie. It was an awesome sight, far surpassing in size even the growing armies of Orcs and wild Men hidden behind the walls of Mordor. To his bafflement, the vast armada, which had now slipped away from the habour, did not turn to the East, towards Middle Earth – it sailed into the West, towards Valinor. Were the Admirals mad? They would be dashed to pieces amid the rocks of the Enchanted Isles!

To his wonderment, and growing horror, the armada, at least two-thousand ships strong, sailed though the misty barrier of the Isles as if it were but an illusion. Not a single ship appeared lost. They sailed ever westward, through the Bay of Eldamar, their black and gold sails gleaming in the Sun, unchallenged by any Elvish ship, until they came upon the shores of Aman itself. What was this? Why, the red-tunic'd armies of Numenor were embarking on the shore, bearing their crimson and sable serpent banners above their heads! Quickly forming into columns, they marched past Aqualonde, which seemed abandoned, and up the Pass of Light to the Walls of Tirion. There, they encamped, and began to lay siege to the fortress of the Noldorin Elves!

Amandil's gaze then turned to Mount Everwhite. The beacon at its peak now shone forth with a golden, even a reddish light, as if burning with the fierce anger of the Valar at this act of blasphemy! Now a shadow began to grow over Valinor, but not the Shadow from the East – this Shadow of the West was formed of the healthy clouds of the Sea, which drifted westward, forming dark thunderheads. Amandil could the din and clamour of war echoing from the Undying Lands.

Then, from the heavens above, a mighty voice pealed forth, deeper than the depths of the Sea, and stronger than the foundations of the Earth:

"The Doom of Numenor is at hand!" rumbled the voice. Elendil looked beneath him, and to his horror he saw that the whole of Numenor was on fire! A great pillar of fire arose from Mount Meneltarma, tormenting the land with its fearsome heat. Giant waves lashed in fury at the island's coasts. Screams of terror and anguish echoed across the island, which began to sink beneath the waves...

Amandil awoke with a start, beads of cold perspiration drenching his aged brow. He often had dreams, sometimes rare and ethereal visions, at other times mundane reflections of the waking world. Yet never before had he had a dream so vivid, or one that had lurched so shockingly from dream to nightmare.

Shaking his head, Amandil, his eyes blinking in the daylight pouring through the open windows, pulled on his grey robes, and then walked towards the door to the palace watchtower, which lay adjacent to his chambers. It was highest tower in Romenna, and he often went there when he needed time to think without interruption by others.

Ascending the stone-flagged spiral staircase, Amandil came at length to the Oaken door to the tower's roof. He stepped through the doorway, gasping at the stiff Sea-breeze, and walked towards the parapet, gazing at the scene before him. It was late morning, and Amandil felt disturbed he had slept later than his wont –another sign that old age was fast pursuing him. He stared over the houses and courtyards of Romenna, past its harbour to the Sea beyond, its blue waters speckled with sea foam by the wind.

He then gazed into the courtyard at the base of the tower. From the center of the marble-walled courtyard sprang a small white sapling, surrounded as at all times by four of his blue and white tunic'd personal guardsmen. This was, in fact, the first growth of the Fruit of Nimloth, the White Tree of Armenelos, which Isildur had rescued before its parent had been consigned to the Fires of Morgoth by the Usurper-King and his daemon priest.

When Isildur had returned to Romenna with this seed of Nimloth, several years before, Amandil and Elendil had been both shocked by his audacity, and alarmed by his grevious wound and exhaustion. Yet, Amandil was grateful that Isildur had chosen to act, when his elders had still vacillated. Isildur was a hot-blooded youth, yet he had the vision and courage required of a true leader. He was indeed a worthy heir to Elendil, so long as he was willing to listen to the counsel of cooler heads. Amandil frowned bitterly at the humiliation heaped upon his House yet again by Pharazon the Usurper, who had declared Isildur a Wolf's Head, and placed a bounty on him. Although Isildur had become a hero to the common folk of Rommena, he could not leave the safety of the palace without an escort of armed Men, lest he be felled by a hidden agent of the King. Nor did he dare to journey beyond sight of the city's walls, lest he be captured and slain by a party of the King's Men.

On the subject of cooler heads, Anarion had proven his worth yet again. The doctors had despaired of healing Isildur's wound, which had begun to fester, and even Amandil's own healing skills had not cured Isildur of his ailments. Anarion had then suggested that the Fruit of Nimloth should be planted in the courtyard of Romenna. He seemed to sense intuitively that Isildur's fate was bound to that of the seed of Nimloth that he had saved. Amandil had assented to Anarion's request, and was overjoyed when the white sapling raised its head above the soil of Romenna. For not only had the offspring of Nimloth taken root – signaling hope for the heirs of Elros – but as the sapling grew, Isildur's wound was miraculously healed of itself, and all his old strength was restored to him. That happy memeory brought a brief smile to Amandil's aged face.

But then, the dark vision of the previous night surfaced in his mind, and he frowned once gain. Could its import be true? Could Numenor be facing not merely a dark hour, but its last days? Amandil lost track of time as he stood on the parapet, deep in contemplation. He had not broken fast that day, yet even as the Sun began to sink toward the West, he remained still and silent, absorbed entirely in his own thoughts.

Amandil looked up with a start when, suddenly, he heard the door to the tower's roof open behind him. Turning around, saw his son Elendil walk through, dressed richly in robes of blue and red cloth, as if to attend a feast. "How goes it with you, father?" asked Elendil. "We have not seen sight or sound of you this day. I was beginning to grow worried."

Amandil smiled wanly. "It goes as well as it can, my son, when I contemplate the strength of our enemies, and the growing darkness in this land, and know that the Valar do not answer our prayers for deliverance from evil."

"Perhaps they cannot hear them, father" said Elendil.

Amandil frowned. "No, perhaps not. Mayhap the reek that ever rises from the accursed Temple of Morgoth has led them to turn their backs on our island and our people, and let us suffer whatever misfortune awaits us. You can see that even from this distance, that reek is visible, its sight and smell an offense to the Valar."

Elendil looked towards the West, where the Sun was fast sinking beneath the horizon. It was true; even from so many miles away, a thin black coil of smoke could be seen drifting up from the distant Temple, staining the rosy Western sky.

Amandil sighed deeply. "Last night, my son, I had a dark dream, more terrible than any I can recall."

"What happened, father?" asked Elendil softly.

"It began well enough, indeed was marvelous fair in parts" replied Amandil. "I hovered high in the sky, as if I were one of the Eagles of Manwe, and the great disk of the World was spread out beneath me. I saw the sweep of the western shores of Middle Earth, from Forochel to Harad. I saw fair Numenor beneath me." A misty light played in his eyes. "I even saw holy Valinor itself! Not merely Eressea, and the coast of Aman, which we have both seen through the Palantir. The whole of the Blessed Land was laid out before me, and looked just as described in the songs of the High Elves!"

"That sounds a wondrous dream to me, father" said Elendil, puzzled. "Why has it darkened your heart?"

Amandil frowned. "That was not all. For I saw a Shadow from the East, which originated in the Black Land, and spread across the whole world, nigh to the shores of Valinor."

"Indeed" said Elendil, glumly. They both knew well what the Shadow from the East symbolized. Elendil saw in his mind's eye Sauron's fair face, as it had first appeared when the Dark Lord surrendered himself at the Crossings of Harnen, all those long years ago. Elendil wished he had cut the fiend's head from his shoulders, instead of leading him to the King's Camp! Much good that it would have done, had he attempted it...

"Elendil, are you listening?" asked Amandil, sounded vexed.

"Forgive me, father" said Elendil, blushing. "I meant no disrespect. I was merely troubled by my own dark memories, for a moment."

"I understand, my son" replied Amandil, more gently. "But you must focus your mind on what I am saying, for it is of the utmost import. The Shadow from the East was but the least of the evils that I saw in my dream."

Elendil started, looking shocked. "How could there be a greater evil, father? Only One can be deemed a greater evil than the Dark Lord of Mordor, and that One was cast from the Circles of the World more than three thousand years ago."

"It was not who I saw, but _what_ I saw that has chilled me to the bone" replied Amandil. "First, I saw a great fleet of the King's ships, mustered at our ancient home of Andunie.

The fleet was vast beyond reckoning. It set forth, and sailed – _West!_"

"West?" asked Elendil. "Then you saw it founder upon the shores of the Enchanted Isles?"

"No, my son!" replied Amandil. "Listen, and do no interrupt. It sailed west, and passed through the Enchanted Isles as if they had no substance, but were mere mists and shadows. It sailed nigh to the shores of Valinor – and then a great army of the King's Men disembarked on the shore! They marched up the Calacirya to Tirion, and made war upon the Noldor, on the very doorstep of the Valar's realm! And the Valar waxed wroth at this blasphemy."

Amandil turned pale. "Yet that was not all. A great voice cried out that the doom of our people was at hand. And looking down, I saw the supreme horror! The whole isle of Numenor was aflame! The cries and lamentations of the people rose to the heavens, yet it was too late to seek repentance, or ask for aid. The land itself shrieked and groaned, and then began to sink into the waves, consumed at last by the angry Sea."

Amandil shuddered, for his words could not begin to convey the horror of the dream, so vivid had it been in his own mind. Elendil looked grave, but remained silent.

At length, Amandil spoke again. "I believe we have been given a warning my son, a warning sent by Manwe, Lord of the Valar, or perhaps even by Eru himself. If we do not bring an end to the evils that have cursed this island, then the King will lead us all to our doom. I know not if Pharazon will, in literal truth, wage war upon the Valar – though I would not put it past the man, for he has no honour and knows no shame, thinking only of himself and his own pretentions to glory. He already makes war against the spirit of the Valar in our land. But of this I have no doubt - if Pharazon is not stopped, there is no hope for Numenor."

Elendil, nodding, turned from his father and stared over the parapet, far out to Sea. He placed little stock in dreams himself, yet he did not wish to gainsay his father's mastery of dream-lore. He could not disagree that the King posed a grave threat to the future of the Numenoreans. Yet, neither could he see what further actions they could take against him, beyond those they had already attempted. His power, his hold over the people, was too great.

Of course, the King's power was only apparent. In truth, Pharazon was but a puppet, for Sauron controlled all from behind the throne. To scour the land of evil, they must expel Sauron's dark presence. Yet, how could that be done? The tragic loss of Admiral Minastir had deprived the Lords of Andunie of their only agent at Armenelos, so Amandil and his sons no longer had any inkling of the events that transpired within the Royal Palace, beyond rumors brought by refugees. Elendil half regretted that Isildur had not offered the Palantir to Queen Miriel, once she had proven her heart to be true. But then, that would only place the unhappy woman in even greater danger, since Sauron knew the Palantir for what it was, and it would be disastrous should he find it in her possession. And in any case, much of the information supplied by Minastir had consisted of falsehoods devised by Sauron, if Isildur had overheard the Dark One's boasting correctly. Mayhap they were fools for ever thinking they might outwit Sauron, the master of lies and deceit.

Elendil sighed, his head spinning as he thought of the burdens that had been placed upon himself and his House. Surely such weighty matters need not be decided upon tonight? What his father needed now, thought Elendil, was a distraction, something to lighten his heart. They could take counsel on affairs of state the next morning.

Turning his gaze to Amandil, Elendil said "There are many cares upon us, father, but we Men cannot spend all our brief days oppressed by their weight. Hark ye; a feast is being held this night, in the great hall of our palace. Many of the leading citizens of Romenna have been invited, good and loyal men and women. I shall attend, and Isildur and Anarion as well. You have not been seen amongst the people for some days now. Come celebrate with us, my sons and I. Some cheer and song will lighten your mood, and lift the cares from your heart, if only for awhile..." Elendil smiled, pleased at the thought of seeing his father obtain joy from life again.

Amandil was silent, and then a slow, sad smile appeared on his face. Looking wistfully at his son, he said "You make your appearance amongst the people at this feast, Elendil. I shall not accompany you, for I have little time left in these mortal lands."

Elendil felt his good humor blown away like a stray pennant of cloth before the sea winds. Gazing at his father, he said "What is the matter, my Lord? Are you ill? I shall summon the doctors for you at once!"

"No, my son, I am not ill" said Amandil. "But my heart cannot be lightened by feasting or frivolity, for I cannot shake from my mind the vision of Doom...The refugees have told us that there is a great muster of the King's forces, that ships have been summoned to the harbour of Andunie. My dream may only have reflected these things, and yet.."

Amandil frowned. "This muster" he continued, "is either the King's latest stratagem, or that of the Dark One, or else is yet another manifestation of the King's madness. We can only guess its purpose, thought I fear that my dream revealed the truth, that Sauron has finally goaded the King into carrying his war against the Valar from this land onto the soil of their own Blessed Realm."

Amandil shuddered at the thought. "Yet" he continued, "let us leave aside this matter for a moment, and consider the broader picture. I will admit that I have become a scholar of lore in my old age, and left many practical affairs to your governance. Yet, I flatter myself that I have not lost my grasp on affairs of state, or the arts of strategy and tactics. I will confess, to your ears alone, that is clear to me our position is utterly hopeless. There is no stratagem that we can Men use to unseat through our own efforts Sauron and his puppet King. We have rescued from Sauron a seed of Nimloth, and reclaimed a Palantir that had almost fallen into his grasp. Yet we are like a man, standing on a beach, who shakes his fists at a vast, dark wave, towering over him, ready to sweep him away. We are vastly outnumbered, and it is only a matter of time before Sauron goads the King into sending his armies to crush us, once and for all. We face either eventual death by siege here in Numenor, or exile amongst the wild Men of Middle Earth, all but a fraction of whom are servants of the Dark One."

"Only the aid of the Valar" concluded Amandil, "may save Numenor now. They have warned us we must stop the Sauron and the King, or face doom. And yet they will not help us to defeat our enemies, despite our beseeching them many times for their aid. That is not sufficient, for we are well nigh powerless to resist Sauron's evil. We cannot turn the tide alone. And so, I deem the Valar must be made to hear the pleas of Men in person, if they will not do so from afar."

Elendil stared at his father, bewilderment showing on his face. "What do you mean, father? We have fought against the evils committed by the King, but as yet we have not commited treason against him, by openly aligning ourselves with powers that seek his downfall. Shall we do so now?"

"Is my meaning still not clear to you, my son?" asked Amandil. "Perhaps I should have overseen your studies better in your youth, if you cannot grasp my design. Our ancestor Earendil the Mariner recognized ages ago that the only hope in the war against Morgoth lay in sailing to Valinor, and appealing to the Valar for their direct intervention. Like him, I have come to realize that our only hope is to send an emissary to Valinor, to appeal for the Valar's intervention against Sauron, and our mad King."

Elendil stared in horror at Amandil. Had his father suddenly lost his mind, driven to lunacy by years of strife and exile? "Father!" he cried. "You speak madness! Men cannot seek Valinor and live! Were we to send a ship, it would be dashed to pieces on the rocks of the Enchanted Isles. Even if by some miracle it should sail past all obstacles and reach the shores of Aman, those Men on it would never be allowed to return to the mortal lands. To their loved ones here, it would be as if they were dead. And in any case, there is no guarantee the Valar would answer such an appeal."

"No, there is no guarantee" said Amandil. "But it is our only hope if our followers are to avoid death in Numenor, or exile from this land forever. And I know full well that any Man who sets sail for Valinor shall never be seen again amongst mortal Men, even should he survive the doubtful journey there. That is why the emissary we send to the Valar must be an old Man, near the end of his days in any case, and one who bears responsibility for the welfare of his people. That is why it must be me!"

Elendil stared at his father, and could read the intent in his aged eyes. He felt tears beginning to form in his own eyes, but stifled them for shame. "Father, I beg of you!" he said. "If in your wisdom you deem we must send an emissary to the Valar, then let it be me! I have given you heirs in my two lads, and they may rule when I am gone..."

"No, Elendil!" said Amandil, drawing himself up to his full height, his aged voice yet echoing with authority. "I am the sovereign Lord of Andunie, the ruler of all our people who now live in Romenna. The responsibility is mine alone. I have already made this decision, and you will respect and abide by it as my son and as my vassal. Ready for me at once a small ship, one of the harbour skiffs, laden with sufficient provision that I may survive the journey to Valinor. I shall depart this very night, for I have no desire to languish in the sorrow of a lengthy farewell to you and your sons. When the sails of my ship are no longer in sight, the sovereign Lordship of our House will then pass to you, Elendil. May you rule with wisdom and justice in these troubled times."

Elendil felt a tear roll down his cheek, but nodded. A noble of Numenor, true to the old ways, he knew his duty must come first. He embraced his father, and then led him down the tower stairs toward the pier.

As they exited the tower, they came upon Isildur and Anarion, decked out in their finery, and three of their oldest and highest-ranking servants. "Where in Manwe's name have you been, father?" asked Isildur. "The feast has already begun, for all the guests are assembled, and we dared not delay it any longer. They were about ready to start a riot, if we did not break open the flagons of ale" he laughed. "And you should join us, grandfather. Many of the guests have already asked for you." Then he noticed his father's mood, and that of his grandfather, and fell silent.

"What ails you, my Lords?" asked Anarion. "You look as though you have seen a wraith."

Elendil said nothing, for he could not find words to express the sorrow of his heart. Amandil mustered a faint smile, and then laid one hand on Isildur's broad shoulder, and while laying the other on Anarion's slim arm.

"My lads" said Amandil softly, "I fear I cannot attend your feast. Duty calls, and this very night I must leave you, upon a mission of the greatest importance. I will not speak of it now" he said, silencing them, "though you may ask your father of it when he is ready to inform you. I know not when or if I shall return."

He sighed, but then smiled more broadly. "If I do not return, then know that I am as proud of both of you as any Man could be of his grandsons. I know both of you will conduct your lives with honour and dignity, and never cease your efforts in the struggle against the Enemy. You are each other's greatest allies, for when your strength and daring, Isildur, are combined with Anarion's cool head and keen mind, then no Man can stand against you. Never fight separately, when you may fight together! Fare you well!"

Isildur and Anarion stood as still as statues, baffled and saddened by this sudden news. They nodded, silently, at their grandfather Amandil then turned to the three aged servants who had accompanied them, and who appeared dazed by the news that their lord would depart them.

"My friends" said Amandil, "if I could prevail upon you, perhaps for the last time. Will you help me gather my belongings, and some provinder, for the journey that awaits me?"

"Aye, my Lord" said one of the Men, his dark eyes staring somberly at Amandil. "We will go to the ends of the Earth to help you, if need be. You know that I'm sure, my Lord."

Amandil smiled, and signaled them to accompany him to his chambers.

As Amandil and his servants departed, Elendil turned to his sons, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Speak to no one of what has passed here" he said. "I shall not attend this feast, but you must return to it now, so that our House is represented. Do what you may to maintain your cheer in front of the people. At dawn tomorrow, meet me in my chambers, and I will explain to you all that has transpired this night. Then we will tell the people what we must."

Isildur and Anarion nodded silently, and then turned and walked slowly toward the great hall, whispering urgently with each other.

An hour later, Amandil's skiff was ready, its small white sails, trimmed with blue and gold, flapping in the breeze from the Sea. Amandil stood by the gangplank, alongside the three aged servants who had helped carry his food, water and some simple belongings to the skiff. They had insisted on accompanying their master, to life or to death, as his crew on board the ship. Amandil, swearing them to secrecy, had revealed to them his destination, and the terrible peril that they would face, but they were not dissuaded from their purpose. Amandil was then touched by their loyalty. Recognizing the difficulty of sailing the skiff single-handedly, he had agreed, with much reluctance, that they could accompany him.

Amandil looked at Elendil, and withdrew from a pouch on his belt the golden Seal of the Sovereign Lord of Andunie. He placed the Seal in Elendil's hands, passing his authority onto his son. Without further word he embraced Elendil firmly. Then, he turned and walked up the gangplank to the skiff, accompanied by his crew. One servant attached a banner, bearing Amandil's personal device, to the mast. The gangplank and the anchor were raised. The ship then pulled away from the pier, and sailed gracefully toward the outer harbour, the passage to which was guarded by a mighty iron chain. Several barques, on patrol, recognized Amandil's device on its banner, and drew back the harbour chain a short distance from the walls. Amandil's skiff passed the walls, and sailed through the outer harbour into the open Sea beyond.

Elendil knew he must not weep before the people of Romenna. He walked quickly towards the palace watchtower, passing through the winding streets and alleys, past the ivied houses of grey granite and their courtyards. His red-rimmed eyes drew curious glances from the citizens, who were already beginning to spread rumours about Amandil's departure.

Once alone on the tower's roof, Elendil wept openly as he watched his father's ship head eastward across the Sea, its sails growing ever smaller, until it was beyond the sight of ordinary Men. But Elendil, with his far-seeing eyes, saw the ship tack towards the northwest as it approached the ultimate horizon. The Sun had set, and pale starlight shone off the white sails of the ship that would bear Amandil to the West of West, or to a watery grave.

And, then, the ship was gone. Elendil, son of Amandil, never saw his father again.


	9. Lightning and Fire

**IX.) Lightning and Fire**

Within the marble walls of the Throne Room at Armenelos, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden, wearing crimson robes and wrapped in a purple cape, listened to the report of the spy who bowed and scraped at his feet.

The room was dark and shadowy, lit only by two braziers of bronze at the base of the steps leading up to the throne. The smokes from the sacrifice of Eru's servants, years before, had blackened the ceiling, and blotted out the light that once poured through the gems embedded in it. The arches cut into the base of the dome were draped with black cloth. No longer was the Throne Room surmounted by the Dome of the Stars, but rather by the Dome of Darkness. This appellation was of Sauron's devising, for he had insisted that the room's newfound gloominess was pleasing to Melkor. Whenever the worshippers of Melkor entered the Throne Room, and stared above them, they would no longer see an image of the stars beloved by the accursed Valar. They would see a field of sable, and contemplate the Void that was the home of their Master.

The King's throne was flanked by two Royal Household Guardsmen dressed in their splendid tunics of crimson and sable, and holding their spears rigidly at attention. To the right of the throne, Sauron himself sat on the Steward's ebon bench. Since the murder of Nuphkor some years before, Sauron, his vigour seemingly inexhaustible, had resumed the Steward's duties in addition to his priestly role. His youthful features were calm and impassive as he listed to the spy's tale.

The King, however, was in a particularly impatient mood. Noting with distaste the spy's grimy robes, still spattered with mud from two days of hard riding, he decided to end the man's babbling.

"What do you mean, vanished?" snapped Ar-Pharazon. "Vanished where? Where could an old dodder like Amandil go, in Melkor's name? He has one foot in the grave as it is."

"My liege" replied the the spy, "it is rumoured..."

"It is _rumoured_?" interrupted Sauron, his clear voice tinged with an icy note. The spy stared up at him, transfixed like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a snake.

"What we want" continued the High Priest, "is _specific information_. Not rumors, not gossip, but hard facts. That is what you're paid for, is it not?"

"Of course, m-my l-lord..." stammered the spy. Secretly, he cursed his ill fortune at having chosen to deliver his report to the King at a time when the dreaded High Priest of Melkor was present. "I only know, as a fact" he continued, "that Amandil has vanished from Romenna entirely. I also know that Elendil publicly announced that Amandil has departed on a mission of great importance, but that before his departure he divested the Sovereign Lordship of Andunie, and the office of Master of Romenna, upon Elendil himself. Elendil displayed to the people the Seal of the Lordship of Andunie, as proof of his newfound authority."

"What mission?" barked the King. "And to whom?"

"It...it is rumored, my liege" said the spy, "that he was seen departing the harbour at Romenna in a small skiff, accompanied by three greybeared servants, so careworn that they appeared well nigh as aged as himself." He glanced nervously at the King's withered face, noting with relief that Ar-Pharazon had not taken offence. "The skiff was said to have sailed into the East. Alas, I did not see this take place myself."

"The East" frowned Ar-Pharazon. "A mission of great importance. Phah! There is no one in the East who could be of any aid to the heretics of Romenna. The treacherous Elves of Middle Earth might breathe new lies into Amandil's ear, and encourage him to stir-up dissension in Numenor. Perhaps they will give him one of their Elvish baubles, to appease his vanity. But they will not lift a finger to help him by their own efforts."

"Amandil is not in the East" said Sauron, emphatically. "No Man of Numenor can set foot anywhere in Middle Earth, without my learning of it. You might recall that Elendil, for instance, set out upon a voyage to Lindon years ago. He thought it was in secret. But my servants amongst the birds and beasts of Middle Earth are many, and through them I was made aware of his presence there almost as soon as he set foot on its distant shores, even though I was here in Numenor. Of Amandil, though, there is no sign in that land."

"Where is he, then?" asked the King. "We've certainly received no word of his presence elsewhere in Numenor."

"He has passed beyond my ken entirely" replied Sauron, "though I confess I cannot sense the whereabouts of Men on the soil of Numenor as easily as in Middle Earth, for this land is yet new to me as I measure the count of time. You are correct that our other spies have not reported any sign of Amandil elsewhere in Numenor. If his is neither in the East nor in the West of the mortal lands, then mayhap Amandil is dead." With a smile, he added "Or perhaps his precious Valar have received him in their own realm."

"Received him!" snorted the King. "They receive no Man willingly! It is thanks to their stubborn pride that I must send an armada, to seize by force what is mine by right!"

"Of course, my liege" said Sauron soothingly. "I merely made a little jest, though I fear it was in poor taste. Well, it appears that this old fool Amandil is not in Numenor, and I cannot sense any sign of his presence in Middle Earth. It seems doubtful that he could have survived at sea for so many weeks, in naught but a skiff. Therefore, it seems safe to conclude he might very well be dead. Although..." He stared at the spy. "How much time elapsed between the _rumoured_ departure of Amandil by sea, and the assumption of sovereign Lordship by Elendil?"

"Only a single day, my lord" said the spy.

"And yet you waited five weeks before making your report?" asked Sauron, raising a sable eyebrow.

"My lord..." replied the spy hesitantly, "Romenna is well guarded. It was with difficulty that I first gained admittance, for Amandil's men questioned me closely, as they do all who seek entry to that city. To have departed Romenna for some days, long enough to journey to Armenelos, will undoubtedly have cast suspicion on me, for none of its heretics will venture beyond sight of the place. I will not be able to enter Romenna again, without being at grave risk of discovery as one of the King's Men. Seeing this in advance, I sought to spend as much time as possible in Romenna, seeking the truth behind Amandil's departure and Elendil's account of it, before fleeing that nest of heretics to make my report. I only departed when it was clear that there were no more hard facts to be gathered – none available to me, at least."

"Indeed" said Sauron, displaying no hint of whether he believed the spy's account. He then turned his gaze upward, seemingly absorbed in thought. "I wonder, why would Amandil, before his disappearance, devolve his Lordship onto Elendil? One would think he did not expect to return from this supposed mission." He smiled. "In truth, if this tale involved any other noble family of Numenor, I would simply conclude that the impatient heir had murdered his sire and stolen the Seal of Lordship, in greed for his birthright, and then concocted a story to disguise his crime."

Sauron then frowned. "But that gaping lackwit, Elendil, doubtless thinks himself above self-indulgences such as patricide and theft. I think it unlikely he had Amandil killed." With a contemplative air, Sauron mused "I have read in a scroll, located in the Hall of Records, that it was once a custom amongst the royal family of this isle for an aged King to pass his throne into the keeping of his heir while he himself was still alive. Perhaps Amandil, on some whim, has sought to revive this ancient royal custom, within his own family?"

"Well, I shall reflect on this puzzle" continued Sauron. "Nevertheless, as I said, there is, as far as I can tell, no trace of Amandil's presence here or in Middle Earth, and it is very doubtful he could have survived so long at sea in a small craft, with only a limited store of fresh water. He surely must be dead."

"That is sound reasoning" concluded the King. "So, at last, Amandil is dead, lost at sea. A pity, then, that I shall never find his grave. If I did I would dance on it!" He cackled gleefully for some minutes, while Sauron smiled indulgently.

But then, the King's mood took a dour turn. "And now that weakling Elendil calls himself Lord of Andunie, and Master of Romenna. Lord of Infidels! Master of a Dung-heap!"

Sauron turned again to the spy, and casually gestured toward the great bronze doors that led to the exit from the Throne Room. "You have our gratitude for your efforts. You may go." The spy bowed deeply, and then scurried off, pleased to have escaped this encounter with Melkor's hierophant without loosing his head, or worse.

He was, perhaps, overly hasty in celebrating his escape. Sauron rose from his bench and, in a lightening-fast move, grabbed the spear from the hands of the guard closest to him. He hurled it at the spy, and the missile hit the unfortunate man squarely in the back. The spy shrieked, and his arms jerked spasmodically, before he dropped to the ground like a stone. His body twitched briefly, and lay still in a growing pool of its own blood. The two Guardsman flanking the throne walked down the steps and, retrieving the spear, took up the spy's body and dragged it away to dispose of it. Two more Guards stepped forth from the shadows to take their place by the King's throne. "Perhaps the next spy we send to Romenna will be capable of sifting fact from rumour, where you were not" opined Sauron.

Turning back to the King, whose withered features were twisted with a bemused smirk at Sauron's grim jest, Sauron said "I think, your Majesty, the time has come at last to put Elendil's loyalty to the test. That he is a heretic, is beyond doubt. Is he, as a matter of law, a traitor as well? Now is the time for the truth to be known. You will recall, some months ago, I proposed you test his late and unlamented father by demanding he send soldiers to join the muster of our forces. Amandil, it appears, is no more. Yet, there is no reason we cannot apply the same test to his son. Send a herald to Elendil, and command him to summon every Man in Romenna capable of bearing a pike or spear, and march them to the muster fields nigh to Andunie, where they will be placed under your command. Elendil has surely heard rumour of the muster of our armies and navies from across the World, yet we need not disclose to him our ultimate purpose in assembling this mighty force. He is your vassal, and must obey your orders in time of war without question. If he does not, he proves himself to be a traitor, and all the respect and renown attached to his House will prove insufficient to excuse him in the eyes of the nobles and the people. And then..."

"And then his head will decorate my Palace gates!" laughed the King. "I would gladly sacrifice an entire regiment of Men in a fight against the dogs of Romenna, if so doing would put an end to that meddler Elendil. They can dispatch the Wolf's Head Isildur, while they're at it, and that milksop Anarion, if he seeks to obstruct the King's justice. Scribe!"

From the shadows by the throne, a reedy, withered man in robes of grey stepped forth, armed with a stylus and a wax tablet. Ar-Pharazon dictated his commands to Elendil, and instructed the scribe to set them down on parchment, for affixment of the Royal Seal, within the hour. Bowing deeply, the scribe rushed from the throne room to his own chambers, to carry-out his appointed task. Sauron, meanwhile, began to frown, his face bearing a rare look of vexation, even of anxiety.

"Another day's business done" said the King with satisfaction. "I think I shall retire to my chambers for awhile, for I am in need of rest, not to mention viands and wine."

"It is well that you rest and build up your strength in the days ahead, my liege" said Sauron, through he could not hide his distracted air.

"What is the matter, Lord Sauron?" asked the King, raising a wispy silvered eyebrow. "It is a rare day that I see you showing any signs of worry or doubt. Are you not pleased that we shall soon hold Elendil to account, one way or another?"

"Something is not right, your Majesty" admitted Sauron. "Yes, there is something _wrong_, very near to us. I am not yet sure what it is, though..."

Just then, the bronze doors to the Throne Room gave a mighty groan, and opened enough to permit the entry of a messenger, clad in tunic and stockings of crimson. The messenger dashed across the marbled floor to the base of the Throne, prostrated himself before the King, and then cried out, "My liege, Armenelos is under attack!"

"_What?" _cried the King, jumping up from his throne. Sauron sat on his bench, yet even his fair face looked shocked, if such a thing were possible.

"Armenelos has never been attacked in all her long years!" shouted the King, his voice hoarse and cracking with agitation. "No navy can cross the seas to reach her! No army exists in this land that could menace her!"

"My liege" said the messenger - trained to speak clearly and forcefully, even in a crisis – "we are not attacked by land or sea. We are under siege from the sky! Great Eagles fly over the city, screaming and screeching, casting thunderbolts at the buildings and Men below!"

"Eagles!" said Sauron, rising from his bench. "Manwe...so you have struck the first blow..." The King, looking stupefied, was speechless.

"The people are rioting" continued the messenger. "Many run through the streets in panic. Others have assembled in the public square, before the Temple of Melkor, even as Eagles assail the Temple itself! They weep and wail, and some of them cry out loud that Melkor has abandoned us, and now we face the Wrath of the Valar..."

"The Wrath of the Valar!" sputtered Ar-Pharazon, his aged face flushing purple with rage. "Guards! Perpare my war chariot, and a large escort, on the double! We ride to the Temple of Melkor at once! You shall accompany me, Lord Sauron."

"As you command, my liege" said Sauron, his voice betraying no emotion. The pale fire of script on his golden ring had dimmed to a low ebb.

With youthful vigour, the King strode across the Throne Room, Sauron close at his heels. Shouts and cries now echoed from within the Palace, and from without. As they stalked down the long, marbled corridor that lead toward the exit from the Palace, a large, heavily armed party of the Royal Household Guard, full ten-score, who had been hurriedly summoned from their barracks, caught up with them. They marched down the corridor behind their King and his High Priest, the din of their iron-shod feet reverberating across the vast space.

The end of the corridor was marked by great doors of solid oak. As the door-wardens swung these open, the King, followed by Sauron and the Guardsmen, stepped on to the wide porch outside, staring toward the East.

The porch stood at the top of a flight of two-score marble stairs, below which lay a vast courtyard of cobbled stone, flanked by arched marble walls inside of which were set the Royal Stables. At the far side of the courtyard lay an open gate, protected only by a handful of Guardsmen and a wooden beam that swung open and shut on a pivot – for, a serious assault against the Palace of Armenelos was deemed unthinkable. Beyond the gate lay the city proper, which sprawled for miles beyond, sloping gently downhill toward the distant harbour. The vast Temple of Melkor, its once silvered dome stained black by the smokes that ever drifted upward from the fires within, dominated the skyline, dwarfing every other building in the city. Even now, a black, snakelike coil of smoke drifted up from the Temple, staining the sky for miles above.

The gate-wardens had their hands full, fending off a crowd of commoners who thronged around the streets outside the Palace. Crying and shouting, some of these citizens begged the King for his protection, while others dared threaten to burst open the gates and seize the Royal person on his throne, should he fail to come to their aid. And looking at the sky above, the reasons for their terror and belligerence were clear.

The sky was dark with stormclouds, which rumbled ominously with thunder. A strong wind had picked up, lashing the trees and scouring the walls. Here and there great showers of hailstones dowsed the city, tormenting those unfortunate enough to still be caught out of doors. Yet these threats paled in comparison to the great flashes of lightning, cast down from the heavens at the bidding of giant Eagles!

Eagle hardly seemed a fitting term for these beasts, whose golden wings stretched fully a hundred paces from tip to tip. Their azure eyes gleamed fiercely, and from their silver beaks issued ear-shattering screams of fury. A score of these winged monsters circled in great arcs around the city, and wherever one lingered for a moment, a vast bolt of lightening would issue from the skies above, followed by a titanic clap of thunder that shook the very earth. Wherever one of these lightning bolts struck a building, a great shower of sparks shot forth, and the roof and walls collapsed into a smoking ruin.

It was clear, even from this distance, that the Eagles were concentrating their fury on the Temple of Melkor. Bolt after bolt of lightening assailed the vast structure, and with each blow a heap of blackened marble or tarnished silver crashed to the ground below. Seeing this, Sauron's eyes narrowed, and the script of this golden ring flashed brightly.

"Bring forth my chariot, you fools! Hurry!" shouted the King, his voice muffled by the howling wind. A number of Guardsmen rushed towards the stables lining the courtyard. Within minutes, several had retrieved the King's golden war chariot, which was large enough to fit two men, and hitched to eight magnificent black stallions. The other Guards, aided by the stable-hands, led out enough hastily-saddled horses for themselves and their comrades. As these Guardsmen led the beasts toward the foot of the stairs, Ar-Pharazon and Sauron descended towards the chariot.

Suddenly, Sauron stopped, glancing up at the sky. He then threw the King to the ground, shielding him with his body. Not a moment too soon, for one of the great Eagles had caught sight of them! Shrieking with battle fury, it cast a bolt of lighting toward them, missing the King by mere feet. The lighting bolt struck the Guardsmen behind him instead, a score of them disappearing in a shower of sparks and stones, while the surviving Guards were knocked flat on their backs, visibly stunned.

Sauron leapt up, pulling the shaken King toward his chariot. "Hurry, your Majesty" he shouted above the winds. "We must make for the Temple of Melkor, if it is not to suffer the same fate as your Throne Room!"

"What fate?" cried the King. Sauron pointed to the Dome of Darkness, hunched over the bulk of the Palace. The giant Eagle, robbed of its quarry by a Power greater than itself, had seized on this new target. With a triumphant cry, the winged brute cast a huge bolt of lightning at the Dome. A great arc of sparks and fire shot up, as with a mighty rumble the Dome cracked asunder, crashing in pieces into the Throne Room below! A vast pall of dust rose up from the ruined structure, as the Eagle, with a mocking cry, circled away from the Palace and back toward its brothers, who were assaulting the Temple of Melkor with redoubled fury.

Speechless with rage, the King nodded, and Sauron lifted him up into the golden chariot. Sauron then jumped into the chariot, took the reins himself, and motioned for the surviving Guards, who had picked themselves up from the steps, to follow.

With a fierce cry in some unknown, barbarous tongue, Sauron lashed the reins. The black stallions, possessed as if by a demon, thundered forth, rolling their eyes and foaming at the mouth. The Guardsmen, who had quickly mounted their own horses, struggled to match the furious pace of the King's chariot.

Glowering at the crowd of unruly civilians beyond the gate, Sauron drove the chariot straight toward them, not waiting for the Gate-wardens to swing open the beam barring exit from the courtyard. Sauron, holding the reins in his left hand, held up his right hand and spoke a Word of Command. The wooden beam, as if struck by a gigantic hammer, shattered into a thousand slivers, and Sauron drove the rumbling chariot directly into the crowd. Some of these disgruntled citizens rushed to get out of the way, while others were trampled underfoot by the stallions. Ar-Pharazon, delighting at this unexpected violence, gave a bloodthirsty cry, while the mounted Guardsmen raised their shields and surged past the mob, clubbing with their shield-bosses and spear-butts any who impeded their progress.

Followed by the Guardsmen, the King's chariot, wobbling in the violent winds that scoured the city, thundered down the broad, paved road that lead from the Palace gates, past countless mansions, gardens, and official buildings, toward the public square that lay at the heart of the metropolis. At the very center of that square stood the Temple of Melkor, reeling under the ferocious assault of Manwe's Eagles. Even from a distance, a vast mob could be seen clogging the square, their cries and lamentations echoing for miles.

"The ungrateful swine!" spat the King, as he clung white-knuckeled to the rim of his chariot. "We have brought the blessings of Melkor to them, have shown them the truth concerning the origins of the World, and how they may claim their rightful place in it. And this is how they repay us – displaying their cowardice at the first sign of resistance from the Valar! They should all burn!"

"Our hold over the people is strong, my liege" replied Sauron, as he steered the chariot over a canal-bridge, and on past the cramped houses and jumbled streets of the old quarter. "It is only the shocking nature of this spectacle, combined perhaps with the raised voices of a few hidden traitors and infidels, which causes them to waver. Fear not – if I can but reach the roof of the Temple in time, then the people will be treated to a very different spectacle, one that will humble the rebellious Valar and their flying beasts, and silence all who doubt the power of Melkor!" The King beamed delightedly, reassured as ever by Sauron's confidence and wisdom.

At length, the King's chariot and its escort of mounted Guardsmen surged past the end of the long boulevard, where it flowed into the public square. As they entered the square, the noise about them was deafening. There were countless thousands of civilians, mostly women and old men, but also more than a few younger men who thus far had evaded conscription. The mob swung into a frenzy at the site of their King and his High Priest, who had thus far proven utterly ineffectual in the face of the Eagles' assault. "His Majesty and Lord Sauron shall save us!" shouted some desperately, while others cried in despair "Melkor has abandoned us! Our sacrifices were in vain!"

A few bold souls even shouted "Melkor was long since defeated by the Valar, he cannot save us!" "We must beg the Valar for mercy while there is still time!" The King shook his aged fist at these infidels. Sauron took note of them, but did not react to their taunts, his efforts concentrated on guiding the chariot through the crowd and to the steps fronting the Temple's doors. All eyes were upon him, and now that was surrounded by tens of thousands of onlookers, he took care not to trample any of the citizens in his eagerness to reach his goal.

In the skies above, the Eagles continued to circle the Temple, slamming bolt upon bolt of lightening into its roof, sending showers of sparks and burning slag flying into the air, and raining death wherever they fell on those below. The shrieks and screams of the giant Eagles filled the crowd with terror.

As the chariot pulled up before the steps, one of the Eagles let forth a mighty cry, and cast a huge lightning bolt squarely at the Temple's dome. There was a blinding flash of light. Then, with a deafening roar, a large section of the roof caved in, crashing to the floor of the Temple below, the dust from the collapse mixing with the black smokes that rose up from the fiery pit within Temple's core.

Pulling back on the reigns, which he then handed to the King, Sauron leapt from the chariot, and bounded up the steps to the ebon doors of the Temple. The shaven-skulled Priests of Melkor, who had assembled in front of the doors to prevent the mob from ransacking the sacred precincts within, made way for their hierophant, and the doors swung open at Sauron's command. Without a word, he dashed into the Temple, and disappeared from public view.

Meanwhile, Ar-Pharazon dismounted from his chariot. Surrounded now by his escort of mounted Guardsmen, their crimson and sable tunics flapping in the howling winds, he climbed up the stairs of the Temple, so that he could gaze upon the mob below. Feeling disgust at the weakness and treachery of the rabble, he raised his arms, indicating that he would now address his subjects.

"Silence, in the name of the King!" shouted the Guardsmen. "The King will speak!"

These commands had no effect on the mob, whose members shouted and cried aloud as before. The King's withered face flushed scarlet, as he reeled with humiliation at being treated by so many of his subjects, and in such a public manner, with utter disrespect. The Guardsmen shared his outrage, and cursed furiously at the cowards and rebellious scum before them. The black-robed Priests of Melkor gazed on impassively, though some of them smiled knowingly to each other.

Suddenly, a mighty voice, clear and pure as a silver bell, rang out from a balcony on the roof of the Temple, just below the base of its silvered dome.

"_BEHOLD!" _

At once, the mob fell silent. The King and his Guardsmen turned around, and on the balcony they saw Sauron, a diminutive figure whose robes of sable and crimson caught the eye even from such a lofty height. The Eagles screeched with rage, and continued their assault unchecked, as bolt after bolt struck the Temple of their Enemy.

"_BEHOLD!"_ cried Sauron again. "The Valar have sent these beasts to stir up doubt and fear amongst us. And yea, some of you have caved into your fears, have shamed yourself by giving voice to your doubts."

The mob was now as silent as the tomb.

"Melkor permitted these flying beasts to assault His Temple, in order to test your faith. Many have passed this test, though some have failed. Now, the test has ended, and so shall this latest rebellion of the treacherous Valar! _BEHOLD_, as Melkor reveals _HIS POWER!_"

Sauron raised his arms above his head. He spoke strange words, in a tongue unknown even to his Priests, who had fancied themselves initiates of the deepest mysteries. An ominous rumble sounded from deep within the Temple, and the Earth began to shake, throwing many in the square below to their knees. The Eagles screamed again – in anger, or was it now in alarm?

For from the depths of the Temple, a bright glare shone forth, and from the great hole cut into the dome, a pillar of fire shot upwards, rising until it scorched the very clouds!

Now Sauron lowered his arms, and the mob stood speechless with amazement at the awesome spectacle above them. A vast curtain of fire drifted down from the pillar, shielding the silvered dome of the Temple like a shining, upturned bowl. The bowl grew in size, until the whole of the Temple, and much of the square lay beneath it. The mob, choking on the sulphurous reek that spewed forth from the fire, could barely withstand its fierce heat, and many held up their hands to shield their eyes. The Guardsmen's horses took fright, and many Guards had to struggle with all their might to subdue their panicked steeds.

Yet those Men who still looked above now saw that the tide had turned. The Eagles, screeching with frustration, threw their lightning bolts at the Temple, but to no avail. Again and again, the bolts glanced harmlessly off the fiery shield, back into the clouds from whence they came!

At length, one of the Eagles gave a mournful wail. Abandoning his assault, he turned course, and sailed towards the West, where the setting Sun now stained the clouds crimson as if with blood. His brothers, silent with despair, flew after him, and soon they passed out of sight.

Time stood still as Sauron took in the scene – the retreat of his vanquished foes, the stunned silence of the mob, the searing heat and light of the fiery dome that hovered above the Temple. Then, smiling triumphantly, he raised his arms again, and spoke more words in the unknown tongue. The fiery dome shot up into the sky, only to disappear in brilliant flash of light, and a great clap of thunder. The pillar of fire that spewed forth from the bowels of the Temple began to subside, until at length it sank beneath the scarred dome of silver. The bright glare that had shone from within the temple faded to a ruddy glow, and all was silent. Even the winds that had scoured the city but moments before had dissipated, their force spent. Sauron lowered his arms, and stood wordlessly, still as an ebon statute.

The King, who had watched the miracle unfold with as much astonishment as anyone, was the first to recover his wits. He turned to face the crowd, and drew himself to his full height, for all his advanced years still an imposing figure in his crimson robes and purple cape.

"The Valar have struck the first blow" said he. "The next blow shall be ours!"

The Guardsmen roared with approval, crashing their spears against their shields. Some of the mob took up their cry, shouting and stamping their feet with joy at their victory. The Priests of Melkor looked on approvingly, but said nothing, instead awaiting the return of their master.

Sauron had disappeared from the balcony, and now remerged through the Temple's doors, striding toward the top of the steps. When the crowd saw him, their shouts and roars increased tenfold. "Hail to Sauron!" they cried. "Sauron has brought us victory!" "Melkor is the one true God, and Sauron is his Prophet!"

Sauron, smiling benevolently, held up his hands, and the noises from the crowd subsided to a murmur. Then he spoke, in that clear, ringing voice for which he was so admired.

"My friends" said he, "do not thank Sauron. It was not I who brought us victory."

A dull roar of disapproval now rolled forth from the mob. "What?" "How so!" "It was you, my Lord!"

"No" said Sauron, shaking his head. "I am nothing, a mere servant of Melkor, through whose Power all things are possible. Yet there is one Man present to whom you should give thanks, for to him you owe everything you are, and everything you shall become." He gestured gracefully at the Man standing proudly on the steps beneath him. "Join me in offering thanks to our beloved father, our King, Ar-Pharazon the Golden!" cried Sauron, his fair voice fired with passion. "For it is by his widsom that the Men of this isle converted to the true religion, and so it is thanks to Ar-Pharazon the Golden that Melkor has succored us in our time of need. Hail to the King!"

"Hail to the King!" shouted the mob, fired by Sauron's enthusiasm. "Hail to Ar-Pharazon the Golden! Hail! Hail! Hail!"

For some minutes, the cries of "Hail!" echoed across the square, while Ar-Pharazon stood beaming, delighted that the people who had spurned him but a few minutes before now heaped admiration and praise upon him. The mob was fickle, he thought to himself, but a strong hand could always guide them in the right direction.

At least, he thought sourly, it could guide most of them. What of those troublemakers who had sought to undermine the people's faith in the power of Melkor? Had they truly seen reason, or did they merely join in the celebrations of victory to save their own worthless skins?

Sauron, as if on cue, raised his hands again, and the mob's cries again dwindled. His fair face now bore a pained expression, of nobility tinged with sadness, and marred by disappointment.

"And yet, my friends" said Sauron, his now soft and melancholy, "not all of you share in our joy. Nay, not all of you are our friends. There are those among you, even now, who doubt the power of Melkor, who debase themselves with the thought that all that has transpired here today is but some conjuror's trick, designed to deceive the masses."

Sauron's visage now became stern, and his voice tinged with steel. "I say unto you, you are the deceivers! Infidels and heretics, who have failed abjectly Melkor's test of your faith! You who abjured your fellows to turn their backs on Melkor, and submit again to the yoke of the Valar! Do you vainly hope to avoid the hour of reckoning?"

An ominous murmur now rose up from the mob, while here and there some pale-faced citizens looked this way and that, desperate to make their escape from the crowded square. The Priests of Melkor stared at these unfortunates, and smiled grimly.

"Melkor has not saved us from the Valar, only to suffer insult from a pack of heathens!" cried Sauron. "He is just toward His loyal worshippers, yet fierce and terrible in His wrath against His enemies. Melkor repays disloyalty with vengeance, and treason with death. The time has come for Him to claim His due." Sauron pointed imperiously at the mob. "Seize the heretics! They have betrayed themselves by their words, and cannot hide from you. Seize them, and drag them to the Temple! Deliver them into the hands of the Priests, who shall celebrate our victory by the sacrifice of Melkor's foes!"

Howling with rage, the light of madness in their eyes, the mob now turned on those who had dared counsel rapprochement with the Valar. The grabbed them by their sleeves, their arms, their legs, their hair, and dragged them, struggling and shrieking for mercy, up the Temple steps. One by one they were seized by the grim Priests of Melkor, and pushed through the ebon doors to meet their doom.

The King laughed fiercely, delighted by the slaughter of his foes. Sauron smiled demurely, and stole a secret glance at his gleaming Ring.


	10. A Fateful Choice

**X.) A Fateful Choice**

Elendil stood in the balcony of his chambers, staring at the shimmering stars that bedecked the night sky. Earendil was well advanced in his nightly journey, the Slimaril jewel gleaming brightly from the prow of Vingilot, his enchanted ship.

"You were granted eternal life, my forefather, and are the envy of all Men" mused Elendil. "Yet who is to say whether your fate is a joyous one? Mayhap you stare down from your ship at the lands of Men, and long for hearth and home, wine and song, if for but a single night. Yet they are forever denied you by your strange fate."

He lowered his head and stared out to sea, a vast pool of darkness under the night sky. "And what of you, father?" asked Elendil. "Did your quest for Valinor succeed as did Earendil's? If so, what fate have the Valar assigned to you?" A faint breeze stirred the trees in the courtyard below, but no reply came.

Sighing, Elendil turned and headed for his bed, eager to set aside his troubles in his few hours of nightly sleep. As he pulled the blankets over his bearded chin, pleasant warmth crept over him, and soon he had departed for the land of dreams.

He dreamt that he was a bird, perhaps an Eagle, soaring high in the sky. The whole of the western world was spread out before him, from the lands of Middle Earth to the East, to the shores of Valinor, which glimmered faintly in the West. Yet it was with difficulty that he could see the lands and sea below, for all was obscured by a veil of shadow.

He stared down at Numenor, and managed to discern its landmarks through the veil. There was Romenna, where the veil appeared less thick, and he could clearly see its streets and wharves. To the West lay sprawling Armenelos, buried beneath a thick plume of black some from the accursed Temple of Melkor. Farther west still stood Meneltarma, its Hallow sadly empty and abandoned, shrubs and weeds invading its unkempt meadow. And on the westernmost shores, he could see Andunie, its white and turquoise houses as fair as he remembered them.

He stared again, and was astonished by the vast fleet that stood in the harbour of Andunie. How had he not noticed it a moment before? Yet there it was, thousands of ships of war, their sails of black and gold rippling in the winds.

Why, was this not what his father had seen in his dream, before departing for Valinor? Then he must be dreaming himself. Yet, despite his curious awareness of his dream-state, Elendil did not awaken. Instead, he felt compelled to watch the events unfolding before him.

From the mountains of Valinor, a blot of lightning shot forth, accompanied by the screams of Eagles. It struck squarely at the Temple of Melkor. There was a rumbling of the earth, and for a time smoke issued forth from a fissure which had opened in the sides of Meneltarma. Yet the disturbance in the land and mountain subsided, and Elendil, peering through the shadows, could see that the foul Temple still brooded over the city. Had the Valar heeded Amandil's plea, only for their efforts to prove ineffectual against the might of Sauron? Elendil trembled at the thought. If the Valar themselves could not defeat Sauron and the power of his Ring, then surely Men were doomed?

Elendil turned his gaze back to the West. As in his father's dream, the fleet had now departed, and sailed effortlessly through the Enchanted Isles. As in his father's dream, the fleet landed without hindrance on the shores of Valinor, and a great army of Men spewed forth, surging along the coast and up the Calacirya, the Pass of Light, while the brilliant white beacon atop Mount Taniquetal was stained by an angry crimson glow. And as in his father's dream, the Blessed Land fell under a veil of coulds from the Sea, and thunder and lighting joined the clash and clammer of war.

Then, a mighty voice pealed forth from the heavens, deeper than the depths of the Sea, and stronger than the foundations of the Earth. Three times it spoke to Elendil the Tall:

"The Doom of Numenor is at Hand!" rumbled the voice. Gazing beneath him, Elendil saw the isle of Numenor consumed by fire, shaking and trembling as was torn asunder, only to be consumed by the all-devouring Sea. Terror surged through Elendil as he witnessed the awful scene, which verily was as dreadful as that described by Amandil!

Yet his dream did not end with a vision of doom, as had his father's. Elendil felt compelled to turn his gaze to the East, where all was thickly veiled in Shadow. To his wonderment, a pale light shone forth by the river Anduin, near the borders of the Black Land. The light grew until it was as pure and bright as the beacon that had shone from Taniquetl. At length, it took shape, and Elendil realized that it had formed into the very image of the murdered White Tree, whose offspring had taken root in the Palace courtyard at Romenna! There was the smooth white bark, the leaves of dark green and silver, and the flowers and fruits of white. "Yet hope remains for the Elendili, the Faithful Ones" echoed the voice.

Elendil looked beneath him. To his astonishment, he saw that Valinor and Numenor had vanished! The whole shape of the world had changed, as if it were now a vast sphere. The Shadow had retreated from sea and land, through it still lingered within the walls of Mordor, singed by the pure light of the new White Tree.

Then the voice spoke to him for the third and last time. "Remember! Be ready and tarry not, for the time is near, and Doom waits for no Man!"

With a start, the rumbling voice still echoing within his mind, Elendil awoke in his own bed at Romenna. It was now early morning, and the pale light of dawn lay over the Sea to the East. Elendil sat up in his bed, shaken and bewildered. He rarely remembered his dreams after he awoke; they melted like the snows of fancy before the morning Sun. Yet this dream remained vividly in his mind – he could clearly recall every detail of it.

Shaking his head, Elendil arose, and looked out of his window at the sky, the glimmering stars fading in the growing light of Dawn, which now cast forth its pink radiance on the Eastern horizon. Pondering the dream again, Elendil was not quite sure what to make of it. Like his elder son Isildur, he had always been more a man of deeds than a scholar, and he could no longer ask his father, who had been wise in dream-lore, to interpret it

But then, he realized that another interpreter might be near at hand. Ever since their exile to Romenna nine years before, Amandil had taken it upon himself to tutor Anarion, who was so much like his grandfather in his serious demeanor and scholarly temperament. Might his younger son be able to interpret the dream for him? Donning his robes, Elendil decided to seek him out, and ask his counsel.

* * *

Sitting at a table in Anarion's chambers were Elendil, Anarion, and Isildur, who had been holding an early-morning conference with his brother when their father arrived unexpectedly. Elendil had told them of Amandil's dream after his departure for Valinor, though he had sworn both of them to secrecy concerning it. Elendil now related in detail his own dream, and while Isildur appeared as baffled as Elendil, Anarion turned pale. For a long time, Anarion was silent, his blue eyes gazing intently at the embers of the hearth across the room. 

At length Anarion spoke, in his soft voice. "I am no loremaster as was grandfather Amandil, though I flatter myself a scholar of lore. I can only do my best to interpret this dream for you. That it was a message from the Valar, if not Eru himself, seems clear, for it began as did grandfather's dream. And its message is unmistakable – the doom of Numenor is at hand."

"Yet as with grandfather's, this dream was full of riddles" objected Isildur, impatient with lore and mummery. "No armada of mortal ships could breach the Enchanted Isles. Surely even Pharazon the Madman is not fool enough to send such an armada? And how could the isle of Numenor catch fire, when it is so frequently doused with cooling rains from the Sea? Moreover, this dream compounds the riddles of grandfather's dream with new ones. If the Valar were to strike at the Temple of Morgoth, how could they fail to destroy it? And, why would the new White Tree, which we have under guard day and night here in Romenna, take root in the East? Is not the East, the land of Middle Earth, the home of the Shadow that now afflicts us? Even I can see that the Shadow veiling the mortal lands in both dreams must symbolize the power of the Dark One who now styles himself the High Priest of Melkor."

"What say you to Isildur's objections, Anarion?" frowned Elendil. "They sound reasonable to me."

Anarion pondered these questions for some time. At length, he replied "I know not what is meant by the lightning bolt vainly hurled from Valinor against Morgoth's Temple, unless it symbolizes that the anger of the Valar has not turned our people away from Morgoth's cult. And I cannot explain how the King's armada could breech the Enchanted Isles. Yet the King has Sauron at his side, and who knows what power the Dark One's Ring gives to him? For the Elves can breech the barrier, and Sauron's mastery of lore is surely no less than theirs. Moreover, we know that a mighty army is being mustered, with ships summoned to Andunie, and more being built in the shipyards, as we speak – the recent refugees have told us as much."

"Then the King truly does plan to make war on the Valar, as Lord Amandil's dream also implied?" asked Elendil. "Egged on by Sauron, no doubt. Fool as well as madman! But what of the White Tree in the East?"

"I have thought upon this" said Anarion, "and I deem it not so strange as it appears. For if doom does come to Numenor, as the dream warns us it will, then wither shall we go? To the West? That is banned, and our own ships would surely smash against the barrier of the Isles, even as...". He was about to say even as Amandil's, but stifled the thought.

"To the East is the only way that lies open to us" he continued. "My conclusions about the dream are as follows: the Valar have instructed us to be ready to leave this place, and quickly, with all of our followers, and set out for the East. There, we may rebuild our Kingdom. We shall plant the sapling of the White Tree there, and its growth in your dream is both literal and symbolic, for it symbolizes the rebirth of the line of Elros and the people of Numenor in Middle Earth."

Isildur was appalled. "Abandon Numenor, the home of our people for three and a half thousand years, just like that? On account of dreams? You have lost your wits, brother. Our people left the savages of Middle Earth all those ages ago to build our civilization in this island, nigh to the dwelling-place of the Valar. Now you would have us leave it and return to the mire from which we escaped!"

Elendil silenced him with his hand. "Peace, Isildur."

Elendil was silent for many minutes. Then at length he said, "Isildur, you note that our ancestors came to this island ages ago to build our civilization here. And that they did. But can you deny our civilization is dying, nay is already dead? Can we still say the Men of Numenor are civilized, when they willingly sacrifice Eru's faithful servants, as well as countless women, infants and other innocents besides, on the altar of the Great Enemy? Can you, of all people, who alone amongst us has gazed upon the Rites of Morgoth in his foul Temple, deny that the doom of our people appears at hand, even if it were not for these dreams?"

Isildur was silent. Try as he might, he could not deny it.

"And we must face the facts, even leaving aside my father's dream and my own" said Elendil. "It is but a matter of time before Sauron and the King move openly against us, for we are the only bastion of resistance amongst Men to the new order. Indeed, it is a miracle that our reprieve has lasted as long as it has, especially given your audacity, Isildur, in saving a seed of Nimloth. In any case, the day is surely near when we must face a choice between death by siege in Numenor, or else exile for life in Middle Earth. Your grandfather recognized this truth, though he hoped to delay exile for as long as possible. Indeed, as I told you some months ago, your grandfather departed on his desperate mission to Valinor because he felt that only the aid of the Valar could save us from that terrible choice."

Elendil frowned. "I hope and pray that your grandfather's mission to the Valar will bear fruit. But, I must say frankly that I fear the time here of the Faithful Ones is passing. For nearly three and a half thousand years have we dwelt in Numenor. But we are mere mortals, and for our kind all things must come to an end in time. In my view, we should no longer think of this place, this land, as our home. For Numenor resides not in the land, but in the spirit of its people. My dream has but made clear what all of us have sought to avoid facing: we and our followers must be prepared to depart this island for a life of exile in Middle Earth. The day may soon come when the path of exile is the the only hope for our people."

"Therefore" commanded Elendil, "by virtue of my authority as Sovereign Lord of Andunie and Master of Romenna, as leader of the Faithful Ones, it is my order that all of us who dwell within Romenna are to make preparations to depart in exile for Middle Earth. The dream said that we must make haste, and I will not take issue with that. Though the preparations will require a massive effort, I command that all of our people shall be ready for embarkation within one month."

"We have nine ships-of-war at our disposal in this harbour" continued Elendil, "for I have not released them to answer the King's recall of all naval ships to Andunie. Nor shall I. Rather, I shall assign four ships to myself, three to Isildur, and two to Anarion. Each of us will be responsible for the disposition of his own ships. Our ships could accommodate one-thousand fully equipped soliders each, and all of their provinder, with room to spare. Including our soldiers, there are but twelve-thousand of us in Romenna, out of the teeming millions of this island. With effort, we should be able to accommodate on the nine ships all of our people, as most of them are civilians whose belongings are few."

"Provision the ships accordingly" Elendil instructed. "Instruct the people that they may only bring with them what goods they can carry in one rucksack to a family. Within a month they should have whatever possessions they deem most valuable stored in such a rucksack, ready to be stowed on the ships at any time. I shall instruct our stewards to immediately begin to stow on board the ships such of the books, scrolls and heirlooms of our house that we salvaged from Andunie, and bore with us in exile to Romenna, for these things are our legacy. You, Isildur, shall see to the careful uprooting of the White Tree from our courtyard, and the replanting of it in a suitable container. Place it on your flagship. It is our most valued possession, the only one we cannot possibly leave behind, so guard it accordingly, night and day. It will be more secure on your ship than it is here on land in any case, for I am ever in fear that a vandal, or one of the King's agents, will creep over the walls of our Palace courtyard to destroy it."

"Once everything is ready, one month from today" concluded Elendil, "I may choose to give the order to embark at any time, depending on what signs I receive from the Valar, or on the machinations of Sauron. Should I give the order, embarkation will take place over one day only – it must proceed quickly. We shall depart this land, and make for the Elf-haven of Mithlond on the Gulf of Lune. There, we shall consult with our Elven friends about where in Middle Earth we should establish our realm of Numenor-in-Exile." Isildur stared at his father solemly, while Anarion nodded.

"One last thing" said Elendil. "We know that the Queen has already told you, Isildur, that she will not abandon her home at Armenelos to join us, whatever her fate may be. This means that, should we be forced to depart this isle, we three will be the only heirs of our House, of the bloodline of Elros, who sail into exile. Therefore, to reduce the risk of all three of us being lost at sea, each of us must sail in separate vessels. Accordingly, while five the Palantiri will be stored on my flagship, I will give each of you a Palantir, which you will stow on your own ships. Use them to communicate with me, or with each other, should we be separated at sea. Now rise, and set to work, for there is no time to spare!"

Bowing before their father, Isildur and Anarion left the room, and set out to grapple with the thousand tasks they faced if they were to be ready by the appointed time.

* * *

Some weeks after his fateful dream, Elendil stood on the roof of the palace watchtower at Romenna, and gazed at the nine white ships anchored in the harbour, as groups of servants walked up and down the gangplanks, loading the ships with valuables and provinder in accordance with Elendil's instructions. 

Despite his newfound responsibilities as Sovereign Lord and City Master, he found himself spending ever more time in this quiet place, alone with his thoughts. As always, they drifted toward his father's unknown fate. He wondered how he would ever learn whether Amandil's mission had been successful, short of the Valar descending on Numenor to wage war against Sauron. In the past, occasional Men of Numenor had sought out the Undying Lands by ship, whether out of curiosity, or folly, or merely a pious desire to gaze upon the land of the Valar in spite of their Ban. Such Men had always departed from Andunie, that part of Numenor that lay closest to Valinor, and the servants of the Lords of Andunie had always found the wreckage from their ships washed upon its shores a few months afterwards. But now that the Lords of Andunie lived in Romenna, and Audunie itself was occupied by the King's Men, Elendil had no way of knowing if his father's ship had even passed the barrier of the Enchanted Isles, let alone if the Valar would choose to listen to his pleas, were he given the chance to make them.

Elendil heard the door to the stair descending from the rooftop open behind him, and turned to see Isildur and Anarion.

"How goes it with you, father?" asked Isildur. "It is almost noon, time for our daily counsel meeting. We could not find you in your chambers, but Anarion suggested we would find you here."

"Right as ever" grinned Anarion.

"We three can take counsel here and now" said Elendil, "for I grow weary of the formalities of sovereign lordship. What news have we received from the latest refugees to arrive in Romenna?"

"We have had very few refugees in recent weeks" replied Anarion. "But those who have sought shelter here tell us that the King's military preparations continue, though no one is certain of their purpose. Apparently that purpose is a state secret, not to be revealed to the people until the King deems the time to be opportune. I think we three know the purpose, given your dream and grandfather Amandil's."

"Perhaps" said Elendil. "And what is the situation amongst the people themselves? What is their mood, now that their menfolk subject to conscription?"

"The King's subjects have sunk into decadence" said Isildur, his face twisted with disgust. "They would rather spend their days in idleness and debauchery, or in assaulting and slaying each other for trivial cause, than in serving at arms. Some of the wealthier young men, doubtless through bribery, have managed to evade their conscription for a time. Those commoners who cannot afford to pay a bribe, and openly protest their conscription, are promptly executed. But Sauron has walked to and fro amongst the rabble, telling them that Melkor expects them to serve the King loyally, and enlist in his army when they receive the call. He says they will receive great rewards for their obedience, and very soon. Whether through fear of the axe, or giving credence to Sauron's lies, most of the people obey the King's commands and report for service in his armies. There is certainly no prospect of an organized revolt against Pharazon, any more than there ever has been."

"Can the people not see that they are enslaved to a lie?" asked Elendil. Of course, he knew the answer. "I know not how to save them from their own folly. All our attempts to hinder the growth of Morgoth's cult have been in vain."

"Our efforts have been in vain, because we have not the strength to combat Sauron", Isildur replied bitterly. "All of the troubles of this land are rooted in Sauron, for the King is merely his figurehead. If only we could somehow strike down the Lord of Mordor, or even deny him his precious Ring of Power, then perhaps we could turn the tables on Pharazon, and restore Queen Miriel to the throne."

"There is no doubt Sauron is behind all our troubles" said Elendil. "I know not how powerful Sauron would be without his Ring. In any case, it is vain to consider the matter, for we have no hope of seizing it from him. King Gil-galad himself could not explain to me how we might deal Sauron a fatal blow, as opposed merely to enduring his assaults and harrying his efforts."

Elendil frowned. "I cannot forgive Pharazon. Gil-galad told me that no mortal could hope to resist Sauron's voice, through which he projects the power of the One Ring. Yet we have seen that Queen Miriel has not been seduced by the Dark Lord's lies. Perhaps the pure of heart are less susceptible to Sauron's influence than those who are corrupt. I have no doubt that it was Pharazon's overweening pride and grotesque folly that allowed Sauron to gain dominion in this isle. Pharazon must be judged harshly, for as the King, he is bound to a higher standard of wisdom and conduct than that demanded of ordinary Men. Still, I pity Sauron's other followers, from the King's Men to the lowest churl. It may be they were corrupt to begin with, and so fell under Sauron's spell. Yet now that Sauron has a hold on them, they have become mere pawns of a Power too great and terrible for any Man to control."

"My heart has no pity for those who serve Sauron" said Isildur coldly. "Have I not said that the refugees tell us Sauron's followers have become as rabid dogs? They ravish and slay each other with abandon, except where the King's Men employ the axe and the gallows to keep them in line. They are no longer Men, but fell beasts, fit only for slaughter."

"Peace, brother" chided Anarion. "They may serve evil, yet into this they were led by their King, in whom they had placed their trust. Not all Men have the wisdom to discern truth from lies, or the strength of will to turn back when their betters set them on the path of falsehood."

"Fine words, brother" shot back Isildur. "Did you read them in one of your mouldering scrolls from the library? Do not presume to tell _me _what to think of those who have embraced the darkness. When _you_ have stood on the threshold of Morgoth's lair, and seen in full the nameless horrors of that place, I may deem that your opinion has some weight. Until then, you know not whereof you speak."

"Enough, Isildur" said Elendil, a warning tone in his voice. "Our House is gravely beset with troubles as it is. I will not tolerate dissension between you and your brother."

"Forgive me, father" said Isildur, lowering his eyes. "I find it difficult to restrain my passions when this subject is raised. And my apologies to you, Anarion, for my curt words."

"No offense was taken, Isildur" said Anarion glumly, turning from his brother to gaze over the Sea.

"These dark times place burdens on us all, more than Men should have to bear" sighed Elendil. "Anyone might lose their temper in such circumstances – though you should remember, Isildur, that it is your duty as my eldest son to set an example for others by your conduct. But as to my own burden, I can no longer endure to wait for a word that never arrives."

"What do you mean, father?" asked Isildur. Anarion turned and stared at Elendil, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"I must know what has happened to your grandfather, one way or another" replied Elendil. "If his voyage failed, then the wreckage of his ship may appear on the shores of Andunie, our old home. If there is no such wreckage, then perhaps there is still a glimmer of hope. Therefore I shall journey to Andunie in secret, and see there what I may see. If I can learn aught of the mighty fleet which rumor says the King is assembling there, so much the better."

"Lord Elendil, what you propose is very dangerous" said Anarion, his youthful features etched with concern. "What Isildur has said about the behaviour of the King's followers is true. Outside of those cities and camps controlled by the King's Men, the land is in a state of near chaos. Men are slain daily with complete impunity."

"Anarion is right, father" said Isildur. "There would be peril in such a long journey even if you were an ordinary Man. And if anyone should discover who you are..."

"I am well aware of the risks" replied Elendil. "I shall travel in disguise, and in secret, as a mere commoner, a tinker or peddler perhaps – a man too poor to be worth robbing. And I can think of another Man, my son, who took a much graver risk, not so long ago, to rescue the Fruit of Nimloth." Isildur pursed his lips, but remained silent.

"So, it is decided" said Elendil. "I depart before dawn tomorrow, and will not tarry during my mission. With the grace of the Valar, I will be back within a month. I place the two of you in joint command of Romenna during my absence. Should you have need of it, you may take counsel from Lord Earakhor of Eldalonde, who I deem the wisest of our followers. Inform the people that I am absent on urgent business, and that I shall soon return. Emphasize that my business is in no way connected with Amandil's departure, though we hope to hear word of Amandil's success in due time."

"As you command, Lord Elendil" replied Isildur and Anarion jointly, bowing their heads.

"And may the Valar protect you" continued Anarion, while Isildur nodded solemnly.

"Thank you, my lads" smiled Elendil, as he embraced his sons fondly. "And fear not. I may be an old dodderer in your eyes, but my sword arm has not lost its strength."

* * *

The giant Mallorn groves of western Numenor were one of the greatest wonders of the land. Smooth-barked and golden-leaved, they soared for hundreds of feet into the sky, their heavy fragrance a delight to those who sought refuge under their boughs. A gift of the Elves of Eressea, the only counterparts of these Mallorns, beyond the Undying Lands, were found in Lothlorien, the domain in Middle Earth of the Elven Queen Galadriel. Yet even the Mallorns of that enchanted realm, it was said, were surpassed in height and girth by their Numenorean kin. 

A solitary traveler, face hidden by a frayed hood and cape, led his dappled steed along a forest-path through the Mallorn groves. Ever West he traveled, for his object was the harbour of Andunie, to see what he might along its shores. For days he had traveled through the settled lands to the east, evading many perils, and witnessing from afar many acts of bloodshed and depravity carried out by the common people. His heart lightened as he drew westward, for the blissful Mallorns were a balm to his weary soul. The setting Sun shone through the Mallorn leaves, and it seemed as if they glowed with a brilliant inner light.

A wisp of smoke difting from behind a nearby hillock brought the traveler to a halt. Gruff voices echoed amongst the giant trees. Cursing, the traveller loosely tied his steed to a bush, and reached for the hilt of the sword hidden beneath his cape. He unsheathed his sword, and crept up the hillock to peer carefully over the brim.

In a hollow, sitting around a fire, he could see five of the King's soldiers. They were not members of the Royal Household Guard, but merely rank-and-file members of the infantry, their rough-spun woolen tunics dyed crimson and bedecked with the design of the black serpent. Two of the men tended to an iron kettle full of boiling water – preparing a meal, no doubt – and another worked on sharpening his iron sword, while the remaining two were engaged in conversation. The traveler noted their ages with surprise; the two conversing soldiers were old enough to be grandfathers, while the other three three were mere youths, not even out of their teens.

"...what it's about, no, on one knows" said one man, a hoary graybeard.

"He's gone soft in the head, methinks" replied the other, a sour-looking man with a sallow complexion. "A great army, mustered in the West. And for what? Who's left to conquer? Ain't we suppose to rule the world and all, right now? And there's nothing in the West, but the Sea. And them Valar and Elf-swine, hiding behind their mists and rocks, enjoying the good life while we Men have to grind away for our daily bread. Curse the lot of 'em!"

"Aye" said the graybeard. "No accounting for what Kings do, though, no mor'n what our Officers do. Take our Captain, now. He says, 'Fetch us some deer for our supper, right quick!' Why, there's enough beef and barley at the camp to last the Officers for a fortnight. But no, we 'ave to go running round these blasted woods, day and night, and can't come back till we got a deer to fill their fat bellies. But Melkor save us if we tried to eat a deer ourselves! _We'd _be hanged from the nearest tree, if we tried. 'Stealin' the King's game' they'd say. Well, if it's the King's game, why are his Officers allowed to eat it behind his back, eh?"

"Shut yer traps, the both of you" said the soldier sharpening his sword. He was barely more than a stripling, but had a grim set to his features. "You old doffers do nothing but talk. No doubt the three of us lads u'll have to catch the deer, while you two sit by the fire an' gab."

"Show some respect for your elders, runt!" spat the sallow-faced man in reply. The stripling stopped sharpening his sword, and glared at his antagonist. The other two youths ceased stoking fire under the kettle, and stared up, eager smiles lighting their faces.

"Runt, is it?" asked the stripling. "Respect? There's but one thing I respect, you old pig, and that's this sword in my hand. Maybe you'd like it buried in your rotten guts instead, eh?"

"Filth!" screamed the sallow man, as he unsheathed his dagger and lunged at the stripling. But he was too old for such a move against a younger foe. The youth easily dodged his thrust, and gave a backhand cut with his sword. The sword struck home in the back of the man's head, with a sickening thud, and he dropped to the ground, drenched in a growing pool of his own blood.

The two youths by the fire bared their teeth, and howled with delight. The old graybeard, meanwhile, was reaching for his own dagger. Quick as a flash, one of the youths kicked it out of his hand. 'Grab him! Tie him up!" shouted the sword-wielding stripling, and his two comrades soon had the old man gagged, and trussed up like a lamb for the slaughter.

The murderous stripling, a satisfied smile on his smooth features, held the tip of his still-bloody sword over the fire beneath the iron kettle. As the old man began to moan and stuggle, the light of panic in his eyes, the youths jeered at him. "No reason we can't have a bit of fun tonight, eh lads?" said one of them. "We can dump 'is carcass in the river, with the other doffer, when we're done with 'im, and tell whoever asks that they drowned. No one u'll ask too close about 'em."

"Aye, that's right" said the other. "We'll have a bit of sport now, and get our cursed deer in the morning."

"You might wish to try bigger game" said a cold voice from above. Startled, the youths looked-up, and saw the ragged traveller, bearing a mighty sword of steel.

For a few moments, the youths and the intruder stared at each other. Then, recovering his nerve, the sword-wielding youth narrowed his eyes, a mocking grin on his features. "Well, what 'ave we here lads? A bandit? A deserter? Tell me, trash, o'ws a vagrant like you, dressed like a swineherd, manage to own a fancy sword like that?"

The traveler remained silent, but pulled back his hood with one hand, revealing noble features behind a thick graying beard. He then placed both hands on the hilt of his sword, and stood combat-ready.

"You don't like answering questions, eh trash?" said the youth. "Well, I'll wager this. Whoever you stole that sword from knew how to use it better than you."

"Then you wager your life, with the odds against you" replied the traveler.

With an angry snarl, the youth rushed up the slope, his comrades, daggers-drawn, close at his heels. The sword-bearing youth raised his iron blade, readying for upward slash against his opponent.

Swift as lightning, the man struck at him. His steel blade cut the youth's iron sword in two, and cleaved his head to the breast-bone. As the youth's body, showering blood, crashed to the ground, another youth howled with rage, plunging his dagger at the traveler. The man gave a swift downward stroke, and severed the second youth's arms, followed by an upper cut which severed his head.

The third youth had turned from his charge, and raced back down the hill. He lifted the boiling kettle from the fire, and held it up by its wooden handles. Now grinning, he rushed again at the traveler, hurling the boiling water at him. But, agile as a cat, the man easily dodged the cascade of water, and sank a backhand stroke into his assailant's spine. The youth gurgled, then crashed to the ground, dead beside his erstwhile comrades.

Shaking his head, the traveler stared at the carnage, strewn across the leafy ground in shocking contrast to the beauty of the Mallorn grove. "It seems the King's Men are neither as well-equipped, nor as well trained, as they were in my day" he muttered. He wiped his blade clean on the tunic of one of his fallen adversaries, and then turned to the old graybeard, who stared goggle-eyed at him.

"I'll not leave an elder like you here to starve to death, or be savaged by wild beasts" said the traveler. "If I release you, will you behave yourself?" The old man nodded vigorously, strangled cries issuing from behind his gag. Reaching down, the traveler removed the gag, and heard the man say "Yes, sir! Just untie these ropes now, and I'll do anything you want."

Grunting, the traveler nicked the ropes with the edge of his sword, and they fell from the old soldier, who quickly untangled himself. Standing to his feet, he stared in wonder at his fallen comrades, then turned to the mysterious stranger. "Why, that's quite the swordsmanship, sir" said the old soldier, turning to his benefactor. "Aye, quite the swordsmanship. And quite the sword, too. I'm surprised a man of your years with a sword-arm and weapon like that hasn't been drafted into the King's army. And a man of your bearing too, sir, if I may say so. You must have seen better days, for I can tell by your talk that you weren't born a beggar."

"I am here, on the road to Andunie, in response to the King's muster" replied the traveler. "I mean to make my way to one of the King's camps, and place my sword at his disposal."

"Is that so?" asked the old soldier, scratching his head. "Most men were summoned direct from their town or village and marched to Andunie by the King's sergeants. But no matter – I'm in your debt sir. These wolves here, they've no honour, none at all. You could see that for yourself. It's thanks to you that I'm not their sport right now. Hardor's the name, sir. And what might yours be?"

"My name is my business" replied the traveler curtly. "But if you are in my debt, you may repay it by answering me a question or two."

"Indeed, stranger" said the old soldier, narrowing his eyes warily. "Ask away, then."

"How many camps of the King's army lie between here and Andunie?" asked the traveler.

"Higher n' I can count, sir" said the soldier. "More'n the fingers on me hands, and the toes on me feet. They get thicker, the closer ye get to Andunie."

"Humph" grunted the traveler with a frown. "The beach by Andunie. How many camps along the shore?"

"Ah, none right along the shore sir" replied the soldier. "The King's ships, they're in the harbour there, now. Stretchin' as far as the eye can see, and more arrive each day. But the shore itself is clear. Rumor says it's to make it easier for us to board the ships, when the time comes. Keep the coast clear, as it were."

"And do you not know where are you headed, once you're on board the ships?" asked the traveler.

"That's _three _questions, sir. You did say one or two, and bless me if I can't count a bit higher than that sir. But I don't rightly know where we're a'goin, nor does no one else. We're mustering in the West, when as any graybeard like myself could tell ye, time was when musters was only held in the East, so's the Army and Navy could be sent to Middle Earth. Ain't nothing to the West but the misty rocks, and them Valar and Elves beyond 'em."

"Indeed" said the traveler. He looked at the camp about him. Turning back to the soldier, he said "Listen, friend, it will soon be nightfall. You still have a fire going. Permit me to spend the night here, rather than make camp for myself. Then I'll be on my way in the morning."

"Right enough, sir" said the soldier. "Though I don't know what I'm to do, for I'll be hard set to catch a deer without Mens' help, and my Officers have said I'm not to return to camp without one for their feast. I was a tailor by profession, sir, before I answered the King's call, and fear I know less than I should about deer hunting. I've never hunted larger game than coneys, meself."

"In the morning, I can help you dig a pit, full of stakes and covered with branches and leaves" said the traveler. "I'll place it somewhere a deer would feed, by some tender foliage, and you'll soon have your quarry. But, once I've made the trap for you, I must be on my way. The King's camps await me, and I would fain postpone my duty to our sovereign for longer than I have."

"Fair's fair, sir" said the old soldier. "A fine exchange that is. My fire, for your help with the deer-trap. Well, mayhap you can tend to the fire, for it's starting to go down a mite. I'll go fetch us some water from the river for the kettle, for that young sot lost all our water when he cast it at ye."

The traveler nodded his assent, and, sheathing his sword turned to the waning fire. Crouching on his hands and knees, he began to blow carefully on the tinder, and the flames showed newfound life. Meanwhile, the old soldier walked toward the kettle, picked it up with both arms, and walked behind the traveler, on his way to the river.

Suddenly, the traveler felt a blinding pain in the back of his head, and stars floated in front of his eyes. He fell forward, barely missing the fire, which singed his right shoulder and arm. As he struggled to recover from his stupor, he felt an iron-shod boot on his back, between his shoulder blades, and a sharp dagger at his throat.

"Well, stranger" whispered the old soldier into his ear "I would be much obliged to ye for yer help on a deer-pit. But, when I said you've quite the sword, I meant it. Thing is, I reckon it'd look a lot better hangin' from _my_ belt, than from yours. But, don't see how I could take it from ye, as long as you've still got some life left in yer. Ye might surprise me as ye surprised them lads, and put paid to me as ye did them." He cackled, a dry gurgling sound. "Now, chin up, stranger. A bared throat is easiest to cut..."

Suddenly, the soldier pulled his dagger away from the traveler's throat, screaming as a thundering mass surged toward him. From the corner of his eye, the traveler saw his horse, which had pulled free from its tether, rear up and dash out the soldier's brains with a kick of its hooves. As the old cutthroat fell to the ground, the horse snorted, and then turned and ambled up to its master, sniffing at him, while gently licking the back of his head.

After some minutes, the traveler felt his pain begin to subside, and strength returned to his weary muscles. He sat up slowly, and stared at the bloody scene around him.

"Well, old friend" said the man, "my thanks once again for your help." He stroked the horse's muzzle with his hand. "What a grim irony it would have been, for Elendil son of Amandil to perish like a vagabond in his own sovereign lands."

Struggling to his feet, he stumbled over to the fire, and stamped it out. "I'll make camp elsewhere" Elendil muttered. "These Men were foul enough in life. I need not their vengeful shades to watch over me while I sleep."

* * *

The Bay of Andunie stretched for miles west of the ancient city that bore its name. Between the sea and the land stood a vast stretch of sandy dunes, anchored here and there by grasses and hardy bushes of scrub pine and birch. 

Crouched on the rim of one of these dunes, his horse tethered to a nearby birch, Elendil, his long hair billowing in the stiff breeze that ever scoured those shores, gazed at the beach below him. He had spent days working his way along the beach, searching for the wreckage of his father's ship, while carefully avoiding detection. So far, he had found nothing, seen nothing but the foaming surf crash against the barren shore. Now, once again, he found his gaze drawn from the shore, to the sight before him in the harbour.

Two-thousand of the King's mighty ships of war, their black and gold sails fluttering in the sea-breeze, their whitewashed hulls bristling with rows of oars, sat at anchor. As Elendil stared at them, he felt his spirits sink, as they had many times on this futile journey. He knew that encamped behind the sands of the beach were hundreds of thousands of soldiers, waiting for the call to board their vessels. Elendil, while scouting the King's camps with his own eyes, had been forced to wind his way through them with great difficulty, in the dead of night, to reach in secret the dunes of the beach. Every day brought thousands of new arrivals to the camps, answering the summons to war.

Such awesome power was at the King's command...and therefore at Sauron's command. Was there any hope, wondered Elendil, in his struggle against them? Were he and his sons heroes, or fools?

Elendil felt keenly the bitter irony of King's muster taking place at Andunie, his own family's true home, the very land from which he had been driven in exile years before. He half-wondered if the King had chosen this site for the muster, simply to mock the Lords of Andunie. Turning back to land, he could see his hereditary palace on the northern horizon, rising up from the white and turquoise houses of the city. The palace watchtower thrust toward the heavens, its walls of polished marble gleaming in the Sun. Elendil would have given anything to stand on the balcony of that tower once again, to glimpse if he could the beacon of Avallone in the West. But he knew such hopes were in vain. For the tower was in the hands of the King's Men, and Elendil could clearly see the King's hateful banner, a black serpent on a red field, hanging from the battlements.

Elendil knew that he might gaze directly at the Undying Lands through the Palantiri, yet that did not soothe the pain he felt at the theft of his birthright. How many times, as a child and a youth, had he stood on the balcony atop that tower, gazing on distant Avallone in wonder? How often, as a grown man, had he anticipated the day when his sons would bring their future grandchildren to the balcony, just has he had brought them in their infancy, so that their eyes might for the first time gaze upon the light from the Undying Lands?

Elendil's thoughts were scattered by a sudden booming and trumpeting from the ships of the King's fleet, answered by drumming from the Army's camps on land. The noise was deafening, and Elendil had to shield his hands with his hears, lest his eardrums shatter. His poor steed sank its knees, foaming at the mouth and rolling its eyes in terror at the harsh calmour. Elendil struggled down the slope of the dune, and placed a reassuring hand on the horse's flank, hoping to calm the beast lest in flee in panic.

The awful din ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Whispering to his horse, he urged it to its feet, until it stood upright on the stands, sniffing the air and neighing. For now a new sound could be heard – the tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of iron-shod feet, marching from the camps inland toward the shore.

Elendil rushed back up the dune face, cursing as he slipped and struggled up the treacherous sands. Peering over the rim of the dune, he could see that several of the King's ships had pulled alongside the beach, their starboard sides parallel to the shore. The crews of each ship thrust a gangplank down to the beach, and at the foot of each gankplank a party of hundreds of the King's red-tunic'd soliders was assembling in orderly rows. When each row had its full compliment of soldiers, their Captains gave some signal, and the Men began marching up the planks onto their waiting vessels. Dozens of other ships were pulling up to the shore, ready to accommodate the soldiers assigned to them.

"So, Sauron, you have set your pawns in motion" whispered Elendil to himself.

He knew that he must discontinue his search for the remains of his father's vessel. It was too dangerous, now that the entire beach would soon be crawling with tens of thousands of his enemies. He dared not depart the way he had come, for the King's camps would be swarming hives of activity. He would have to thread his way through the dunes, heading southward, and negotiate his way up the steep headlands, before turning east on the paths that led to Romenna.

With a heavy heart, he took in one last, wistful glimpse of the city of his birth, the city where he should have dwelt for all his days, from cradle to grave, like his ancestors before him. He should have inherited this land from his father, and passed it on to his elder son in return, just as his ancestors had done in their time. Instead, he had to flee from his birthright, and return to a life of exile. The gleaming tower of Andunie now seemed to him like a giant finger, thrust toward the sky, warning him to depart and never return.

More bitter than death, thought Elendil, was the fate that had befallen himself and his sons.

Elendil slid down the dune, and strode toward his steed, wincing at the grains of sand which filled his shoes and dug deep into the skin of his feet. He untethered its reins, and mounted the saddle. He pulled the reins until the horse faced south, and then spurred it to ride quickly. The horse flew like the wind through the valleys between the dunes, eager to leave the barren sands and return to the grassy meadows and woodland glades dear to its heart.

As Elendil fled from his homeland, his sorrow was tinged by a ray of hope. He had searched for days for the wreckage of his father's ship, and found no sign. Of course, that could simply mean that the wreckage was father north than he had journeyed, or that it had been swept into the open Sea. And not his failure to find any trace of his father's ship be a sign, a proof that Amandil had succeeded in his quest for Valinor? And if Amandil had reached the shores of the Undying Lands, might the Valar take mercy on him, and grant his plea for their aid?

Elendil spurred his steed, urging it ever faster. In his heart, he felt that the hour of doom was drawing very near – though whether his own doom, or Pharazon's, or that of all the Men of Numenor, he could not say. He only knew that he must cease dwelling in the past, and turn his mind to the future. No matter what lay in store, his place now was with Isildur and Anarion. Not in the land, but with his sons, would he find his true home.

* * *

As the Sun set in the West, and Mount Meneltarma cast its shadow for miles over the East of Numenor, Elendil, mounted on his steed, sat on an eastern spur of the sacred mountain, glowering at the accursed city that sprawled in the valley beneath him. 

Armenelos, the City of the King. Once, it was the proudest and fairest city in all the world, a city whose name was synonymous with beauty and grace, wealth and splendour. On its western edges, atop a gently sloping hill, lay the vast expanse of the Royal Palace, its stately domes and towers rising from tranquil gardens. To the east of the Palace lay the mansions and villas, the houses and warehouses, the inns and leisure houses, the gardens and courtyards of the citizens of Armenelos, woven together by smoothly-paved roads and alleys, and graceful bridges soaring over canals lined with flowering trees.

Yet all was a mockery. The Palace Garden was still there, yet Nimloth the Fair no longer dwelt within, for she had been murdered at the King's command. The stately mansions and solid houses were teeming with worshippers of Morgoth, who had sunk has low as any Orc in their degradation. Above all brooded the Temple of Melkor, its silvery dome stained black by the smokes that drifted ever-upward from the hellish fires within. Elendil recalled Isildur's tale of the horrors he had seen inside the Temple, and felt an icy hand trace its fingers along his spine.

The sky in the West grew blood red, and Elendil noted that a great mass of clouds was drifting eastward, settling high above the city. The sky darkened, and the clouds began to rumble with thunder. Elendil stared at them dourly, for he had hoped to ride past Armenelos in the dark of night, and so avoid being seen by the King's Men. A thunderstorm might obscure the vision of the King's sentries, but it would also greatly impede his own passage. He had no wish to still find himself a stone's throw from Pharazon's stronghold in the early morning.

Suddenly, a harsh cry rang out from above, and Elendil gasped as his horse nearly threw him from its back in a fit of terror. Calming the beast, he stared up at the sky, open-mouthed with amazement. Eagles! Yet Elendil had never seen the like, and stood awestruck as he gazed at the mighty beasts, at least a score of them soaring above the city from the West. Their golden wings spanned at least a hundred paces if they spanned a foot, and their azure eyes gleamed fiercely.

Elendil sat transfixed at the scene unfolding before him. The Eagles seemed to have the power to command the heavens, for some of them were unleashing hailstorms, while others began casting lighting bolts against the city. Again and again they struck, sweeping over the city in great arcs, until they flew nigh to the Temple of Melkor. Screeching and screaming with wrath, they assaulted the Temple furiously, great showers of sparks and molten slag spewing forth from it with every blow.

Elendil began to feel joy rising in his heart. Were not Eagles the servants of Manwe, King of the Valar? And surely these mighty beasts, with their ability to command the powers of the Sky, could only have come from Valinor itself! Though he had no proof of the outcome of his father's mission, he now felt certain that Amandil had been successful, and the Valar had listened to his pleas. Manwe had unleashed his Eagles, to destroy the Temple of Melkor itself!

Elendil realized instantly the brilliance of this strategy. Who amongst the people would continue to worship foul Morgoth, when he could not even defend his own Temple from assault? Morgoth would be revealed as the false idol that he was, Sauron would be exposed as a liar and a fraud, and the King would be proved a deluded fool. The destruction of Morgoth's Temple was surely a spark that would start a conflagration amongst the people. They would know they had been lied to, and would rise up in open rebellion against their oppressors, against Sauron, Pharazon, and the King's Men. If Elendil could but find some way to contact Queen Miriel, he could openly champion her as the true monarch of Numenor. She could lead the people to expel Sauron, throw off Pharazon's yoke, and restore order and justice in the land...

Elendil was briefly distracted by a plume of dust, rising from the Palace. He noted with grim statisfaction that the dome above Pharazon's throne room had collapsed, destroyed by one of the giant Eagles. Perhaps it was too much to hope for that Pharazon – and even Sauron himself – were buried under the heaps of rubble that must now fill the throne room. Yet Elendil relished the prospect, for it would only be just, after all the evils they had inflicted on Numenor. He became lost in thought as he contemplated the specific steps he and his sons would have to take, and quickly, if they were to gain advantage from this turn in events...

He felt his eyes drawn back to the Temple of Melkor, for the Eagles had redoubled their assault against it with renewed fury. Yet something about the scene now troubled him. The smoke was rising from the Temple of Melkor, blacker and thicker than before. And what was this? Fire was now surging up from the silvered Dome, a great pillar of fire that thrust blasphemously toward the heavens, and scorched the very clouds!

The earth shook violently, an ominous rumble issuing forth from Mount Meneltarma. Elendil was almost thrown from his steed yet again, but managed to cling on, and turn his head to the distant peak that towered above him. His joy dissolved like a blissful dream in the cold light of dawn, for smoke and steam were issuing forth from the summit of the mountain, the Hallow of Eru! Only a thin trail of smoke curled up to the sky, yet even that was shocking. Elendil knew that Meneltarma had stood unmoving ever since Elros Half-Elven had set foot on the shores of Numenor. Why should it now stir with the fires of inner Earth?

Elendil turned his gaze back to the Temple of Melkor, and was petrified by what he saw. The pillar of fire, surging forth from the dome, had taken the shape of a luminous shield, defending the Temple against the assault of Manwe's Eagles!

Elendil watched in horror, as bolt after bolt of lightning was deflected harmlessly. The Eagles' assault was failing now, and he could hear a mournful cry issue forth from the greatest of them. Turning away from the Temple, they flew toward the West, and soon disappeared from sight. The fiery dome faded from sight, and the pillar of fire sank back into the depths of the Temple. The storm clouds above the city dispersed, and the dusky sky was bathed in an eerie scarlet glow.

Shaken to the core, Elendil knew only one Power could have defeated the Eagles of Manwe. Sauron! Had not Gil-galad told him that Sauron's One Ring had made possible his mastery of Middle Earth, that even the High Elves could not stand against Sauron when he wielded it? Elendil knew his thoughts verged on blasphemy, yet he feared even Manwe himself had underestimated the power of the Ring. Perhaps not even the Eagles of Manwe, but only Manwe and the Valar themselves, in personal battle with Sauron, could hope to defeat that ancient demon and his mighty weapon.

Trembling, Elendil spurred his frightened horse, determined to ride night and day until he reached the haven of Romenna. He knew that the people, indoctrinated in the lies of Sauron, would view the day's events not as a manifestation of Sauron's own power, but as proof that Melkor was more powerful than Manwe, and that it was indeed Melkor and not Eru who was the true God, just as Sauron had said. The people would rally behind Sauron and the King, and the position of the Faithful Ones in Romenna would be more desperate than ever before. Elendil felt his heart sink, for he knew he could no longer afford to delay the fateful decision now forced upon him.

* * *

As Elendil turned a corner on the dusty road, he could see over the barley fields the walls of Rommena, and its ivy-clad houses of grey granite clustered by its sheltered harbour. He had ridden for two days, day and night, and he could tell from the laboured breathing of his weary steed that it was as near as himself to exhaustion and collapse. "Not much longer now, my friend" said Elendil, patting the horse on its flank with his right hand. "Just another few miles, and then you will have the well-earned rest you deserve, and the finest oats and sweetest water I can offer!" His horse neighed plaintively, and then lowered its head and surged forward in a last burst of effort. 

As Elendil reached the city gates, he made a sign to the gatekeepers, who despite his tattered robes and disheveled appearance recognized him immediately. The gates swung open, and he rode through the narrow alleys and courtyards of Romenna to the doorstep of his palace, a gracious, smooth marble-walling building, topped by its watchtower, which sat in the center of the city.

As the main door of the palace opened, and servants rushed down the steps, Elendil dismounted, patting his weary steed on its flank. While some of the servants took the horse by its reins, and led it to the stables, others, grim-faced, approached Elendil himself.

"My lord" said the eldest of them, a portly man who stood uncomfortably, fidgeting with a crease in his blue tunic nervously. Elendil stared impatiently at the man, for he was exhausted, and dispirited, and in no mood for small talk with his servants.

"Well, spit it out man!" exclaimed Elendil. "Can't you see I'm in no condition to stand on my doorstep all day? I need a washbowl of warm water – don't spare the soap – a change of clothes, a healthy quantity of wine and viands, and then my own soft bed. Any palace business can wait until this evening, after I've had a few hours rest."

"My lord" replied the servant, "all these things shall be provided to you." He snapped his fingers, and two of the other servants rushed back up the palace steps and through the open doorway. "Yet I fear there is no time for you, at present, to eat or rest, and barely enough time to wash or change your clothes" said the servant. "Not an hour before you, the King's Herald arrived at the city gates, accompanied by a small escort of the Royal Household Guard. We admitted them, though of course after disarming them, and keeping them under close watch by our own guards. This Herald bears a scroll, and says he has a vital message from the King for the eyes and ears of the Sovereign Lord of Andunie and Master of Romenna. He will not deliver this message to Lord Isildur or Lord Anarion – they are currently detaining him in the Great Hall. He insists that he will only deliver the message to you, my lord – though he did not make that clear when he was at the city gate, demanding admittance. When he did not find you at your palace, he then demanded to know where you were, and also began making open inquires concerning the whereabouts of Lord Amandil. And he and his guards have been taunting Lord Isildur, calling him Wolf's Head, and threatening to seize him right in his own palace, and drag him back to Armenelos to face justice. Lord Anarion is well set upon, between keeping an eye on the King's haughty servants, and restraining his brother from tearing them to pieces."

The servant swallowed nervously. "We did not know what to tell him concerning your whereabouts, my lord, for we did not know precisely when you would return from your mission, and of course did not wish to give them any information that might be used against you."

Elendil sighed. "It would have been better if you had detained them outside the palace walls, but it is too late for that now. There is no rest for the weary, it appears. Very well – I will wash and change as quickly as I can, and though my body cries out for food and rest, I will then proceed to the great hall at once, and listen to this Herald's message. Though I fancy I already half-suspect what the King has to say."

"My lord" replied the servant, bowing deeply, before he accompanied Elendil up the steps of his palace to assist him.

* * *

Elendil, who had hurriedly washed and changed into fresh woolen robes of blue and cloth of gold, strode into the Great Hall. The Hall itself was some twenty paces high and wide, and five times as long, swathed from floor to ceiling in richly carved Oak. Trestle tables and benches, for servants and commoners, lined the floor of the hall. At a dias on the the far end, opposite the doors to the hall, stood Elendil's own high table, with a high-backed chair for himself, flanked by the chairs of Isildur, Anarion, and any noble guests whom they might entertain. 

On the steps of the dias stood Isildur and Anarion, dressed in robes of green and blue respectively. Isildur carried an iron longsword in a polished leather scabbard, displayed prominently from a leather belt on his hip. On the floor below, a party of more than a score of the blue and white-tunic'd guards of Romenna stood in a circle, shields and spears at the ready. Within this circle stood half a dozen crimson and sable-tunic'd Royal Household Guardsmen – all disarmed – and the King's Herald, a tall, bald, brown-bearded man dressed in a flowing robe of scarlet, trimmed by cloth of gold. In his right hand, the Herald tightly clasped a large scroll. Ignoring the spears of the Rommenian guards around him, his energies were focused on taunting Isildur, who glowered at him fiercely, while Anarion, who stood to Isildur's right, placed a cautioning hand on his brother's sword-arm.

"Is this what you've come to, Wolf's Head?" jeered the Herald. "A brigand, who dares not leave the walls of his hovel, for fear of assassination? Well, it is said that murderers always fear being murdered themselves, and rightly so, for by their crimes they stir up enmity against them. The rumour at Armenelos is that your father murdered your grandfather, to rule in his place. Have you now followed his example, and murdered your own father to lord it over this provincial village, and its populace of heretics and fish-mongers? Have a care – your brother might be inspired by your example, and soon take the Lord's high seat at your feast table!"

"Open your mouth a little wider, dog" snarled Isildur, drawing his sword, "so that I may more easily cut out your poisoned tongue!" The Royal Household Guardsmen formed a tight circle around the Herald, ready to defend him with their lives despite the odds against them. Anarion placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, and whispered urgently in his ear. Isildur looked up, and to his surprise saw Elendil, at the far end of the Hall.

"My lord" said Isildur, followed by Anarion, as they bowed their heads. Frowning, the Herald turned around, and saw Elendil standing silently at the entrance to the Hall.

"Well, well" said the Herald, raising his eyebrow. He waved at his bodyguards dismissively, and they stepped away from him, though still keeping wary eyes on the forest of spears about them. "Indeed, it is the great Lord Elendil himself, alive and in one piece" continued the Herald. "It appears I was mistaken, and your elder brat has not followed your patricidal example. At least, not yet. It is clear he has a hot head, and a sharp sword to match his sharp tongue. You had best be wary of him."

Isildur looked ready to fling himself at the Herald, but Elendil stilled his elder son with a wave of his hand, while Anarion restrained Isildur gently, coaxing him into sheathing his sword.

Turning to the Herald, and walking down the Hall toward him until he stood just outside the circle of guards, Elendil said "I care not to listen to your insults against me or my kin, servant. You claimed you have a message from Ar-Pharazon, to be delivered to me in person. Deliver it, and then begone."

"Very well" said the Herald, wrinkling his nose. He was tempted to make a barb concerning Elendil's olfactory resemblance to a horse, but something about the grim set of Elendil's steely blue eyes silenced him. Unrolling the scroll, he displayed it prominently, so that Elendil could see the Royal Seal affixed to it. He then turned it so that the script was facing him, and held it out in front of him, while speaking in a loud, authoritative voice that echoed across the Great Hall.

"To our vassal, Elendil son of Amandil, Sovereign Lord of Andunie and City Master of Romenna" said the Herald. "Greetings, from your liege lord and kinsman, Ar-Pharazon the Golden. As is doubtless known to you, we have commanded our soliders and ships to muster at Andunie, on a venture the purpose of which we shall reveal in due course. We require from every town and village, for service in our Army and Navy, the enlistment every man capable of bearing a pike or spear, from lads to grandsires. We require this of Romenna, no less than any other place within our territories on the isle of Numenor. And though you have offended our royal dignity by sheltering the Wolf's Head, Isildur, from justice, and have displeased us through your Elf-friendship, your stubborn support for heresy and resistance to the truth of Melkor, and your calumnies against Melkor's hierophant Lord Sauron, yet we shall offer you this one, final chance to redeem yourself in our sight. We command you to muster every man of Romenna capable of bearing arms, and dispatch them to Andunie. We command you also to deploy whatever ships of war lie in the harbour of Romenna for service at Andunie. We expect to receive delivery of these ships and these men within a fortnight of your being informed of our commands. We trust that you will obey us in this, for we are confident that you will not choose to add death to the dishonour that already lies upon you and your House, by making yourself known to us as a traitor to our sovereign majesty. Signed, Ar-Pharazon the Golden , and Sealed and Delivered on this date & c."

The Herald furled up the scroll, and smiled triumphantly at Elendil, who stared back at him wordlessly. The silence in the Great Hall was deafening, as the Herald passed the scroll to one of his bodyguards, who in turn passed it to one of Elendil's own guards. Holding it gingerly with his shield-arm, as if it might burn his hand, the guard stepped out of the circle for a moment, and passed the scroll to Elendil. Waving him aside, Elendil gestured to a nearby trestle table, and the guard set down the scroll on the table, before returning to his place amongst his comrades.

"You do not wish to read the scroll for yourself, _Lord_ Elendil?" asked the Herald. "Well, there is no need in any case. I have informed you of the King's commands. Now, what are your estimates of the number of men at Romenna who are fit for the muster? Even lads as young as fourteen will do, as long as they have strong arms and legs."

"Tell your false King this" replied Elendil. "Not one man, nor one ship of Romenna, will serve Pharazon the Usurper, puppet of Sauron the Abhorred, and willing servant of Morgoth Bauglir."

The Herald stared open mouthed, shocked at hearing such blasphemy. His bodyguards stepped in towards him, eyeing their enemies grimly.

"Now get you gone from this place" said Elendil calmly, "or I shall cleave your bald pate from your shoulders myself."

The Herald uttered a strangled cry, his amber-green eyes bulging out of his bald head. He started forward at Elendil, only to find a quiver of spears aimed at his neck. Elendil stepped aside, and motioned to his blue tunic'd guards, who began prodding the Herald and his minions out of the great hall at spearpoint. "Do not take your eyes off them" said Elendil to his guards, "till they are through the gates, and escorted to the city's boundry marker, in the fields three miles west of the walls. Then return here on the double, and order the city's gates to be shut and barred against all comers."

After the speechless Herald and his bodyguards had been escorted from the great hall, Elendil walked up the steps to the dias, and embraced his sons. Then he stepped back from them, and stared at them wordlessly. Isildur, sheathing his sword, returned his stare in wonder. "By the Valar, father" said he, "those were bold words. I had thought you would chasten me, for replying in kind to the Herald's taunts. Yet my words were as nothing beside yours."

"Your words were not mere taunts" said Anarion, biting his lower lip, "but a declaration of open war. You know that, father."

"I know it, my son" replied Elendil. "But open war can no longer be postponed. I believe that your grandfather was successful in his mission, that the Valar agreed to aid us..."

Anarion cried out joyously, while a broad grin formed on Isildur's bearded face.

"And yet for all of that, his mission was in vain. I fear the Valar cannot save us in this isle."

"How can that be, father?" asked Anarion, puzzlement spreading across his features. Isildur frowned, and stared grimly at Elendil.

"I will explain all to you, not least what I saw at Armenelos, but two days ago" replied Elendil. "But then we must move quickly. The preparations we have made, in light of your grandfather's dream and my own, have proven all too necessary. Before this day is done, I will summon the people to the public square, and command them to make ready to board the ships. For though I hope for a sign from the Valar, the people must prepare themselves for the worst. They must prepare themselves for a life of exile in Middle Earth."


	11. The Great Armament

**XI.) The Great Armament**

From the balcony of the highest tower of Andunie, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden looked at the sight before him. And he was mightily pleased at what he saw.

It was the first light of dawn. The day was bright and clear; he could even see the beacon from the White Tower of Avallone gleaming on the Western horizon. But his attention was focused on the harbour below. Across the length and breadth of the Bay of Andunie, indeed far out to sea, sat the ships of the Great Armament. Just as the Valar had staged their rebellion against Melkor, their so-called War of Wrath, against the One True God ages before, so now His followers, the King's Men, were coming in wrath to execute the vengeance of Melkor upon them. Not merely to avenge, but to gain the spoils of war, which in this case were nothing less than eternal life and Godhood!

There were more than two thousand ships of war, the gold trim on their black sails gleaming under the rising Sun. Within their holds waited more than two-million warriors of Numenor, a thousand men to a ship. Some were hardened veterans of many campaigns waged in Middle Earth. Others were new recruits who, whether mere lads or aging grandfathers, were eager to prove their valour and attain their prize! For the purpose, and the rewards of the expedition, had recently been made clear to all the Men. The fire of Melkor was in their hearts, and they reacted to the proclamation of war against the Valar, not with the craven dread of servants of Eru, but with the boldness of their true master!

"A stunning sight, my liege" said the clear, high voice of the one who stood beside the King. "And an auspicious day to sail into the West and fulfil your destiny." Sauron was clothed as ever in his robes of black and red, the script on his golden ring gleaming palely as the Sun rose over the mountains to the East. The marble skin of his chiseled features remained as white as ever, in spite of the sea breeze that brought a trace of colour to the King's graying cheeks.

"An auspicious day indeed" replied Ar-Pharazon. He was bedecked from head-to-toe in armour of intricately wrought gold and silver, and wore a flowing red cape bearing the design of the black serpent. The bejeweled silver crown of Numenor encircled his head, and he held its golden scepter in his right hand. A mighty sword of steel, fashioned by Sauron himself as a gift for his King, hung in an ebon scabbard from his richly-worked leather belt. The design of the sword was plain and elegant, though the pommel was carved into a curious shape, rather like the eye of a great jungle-cat of Far Harad.

"Your device for navigating the Enchanted Isles is installed on my ship?" enquired Ar-Pharazon.

"You can see it yourself, your Majesty!" said Sauron. On the forecastle of the King's flagship – Alcondaras, Castle of the Sea - was installed a ring of silver, ten paces in diameter, engraved with curious runes, and framing a panel of what looked like pinkish glass. The Sea was quite visible through it, although stained pink by the tint of the glass.

"I have already instructed your Admirals in its use, my leige" said Sauron. "When you look though it, the fogs of the Enhanted Isles will appear to vanish. Or more accurately, they will be revealed not to exist, since they are but an illusion that coulds the minds of Men. So long as your other ships carefully follow your flagship, one tied to the other like a great serpent, you should have no difficulty navigating your way through the barren rocks Men call the Enchanted Isles. Then, after you sail for a time, you will see the shores of Valinor before you!

Ar-Pharazon gave a throaty chuckle, his face beaming with anticipation. But then, a frown spread across his withered face. "And you are sure that you will not accompany me, Lord Sauron? Your presence in battle would be most welcome."

"Indeed, your majesty" said Sauron. "But we have discussed this before. Your mission will only succeed with the grace of Melkor behind it. To ensure that grace, I must remain in the Temple of our Master – indeed, I must return to it forthwith, for already I am overdue. It is as crucial to your victory, my King, that I remain in the Temple, officiating at the many sacrifices to Melkor that I must conduct throughout this campaign, as it is that your Generals and Admirals accompany you, to lead your Men in the fierce battles that lie ahead."

"Yes, yes" said the King, somewhat petulantly. "I shouldn't question your judgment about the will of Melkor, I suppose." His train of thought was interrupted by a clatter of iron-shod feet up the stairs to the tower's roof. The King's bodyguards stepped back from the doorway, to admit a tall, bearded man, garbed in a robe of scarlet embroided with cloth of gold – the King's Herald.

The Herald stepped forward, saluted the King, and bowed his head to Sauron. He then said "My liege, I apologize for the delay in my reporting to you. You set out for Andunie before I returned from Romenna, and I have been riding hard on your heels ever since, clear across the span of Numenor." He paused. "I have spoken to Lord Elendil at Romenna, and conveyed your commands to him. It is now my duty to inform you of his reply." The man swallowed, looking visibly uncomfortable.

"Well, what did he have to say for himself?" asked the King. "His fortnight is up, and I see no sign of the Men or ships of Romenna here at Andunie. Has he some excuse for his delay, or has he actually sunk so deep in the mire of folly as to have refused my commands?"

Ashen-faced, the Herald stared in terror at Ar-Pharazon, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"This is a novelty" smiled Sauron, showing a glimpse of his ivory teeth. "A Herald who is a mute." Then he narrowed his clear blue eyes. "Come, servant. Tell us, precisely, what Elendil said to you. You are but a messenger, and not accountable for his words."

Trembling, the pitiful Herald sputtered "He...my lord...my liege...he s-said...that...and I quote him, I do not blaspheme myself!...my liege, Elendil said that 'not one man, nor one ship of Romenna, will serve Pharazon the Usurper, the puppet of Sauron the Abhorred, and willing servant of foul Morgoth Bauglir.'"

"_WHAT!?_" shouted the King, his face flushed purple with rage, his fiery blue eyes gleaming with wrath and malice. The Herald dropped to his knees and bowed in supplication, whimpering with fear.

Sauron, his chisled features betraying no emotion, stared down at the cringing Herald. The palsied man looked ready to die of fright. Truly, Sauron thought to himself, these mortal beings were weak, even more fragile than he had realized.

"Patience, my liege" said Sauron smoothly. "There is no need to take offense at this Herald. He has merely performed his duty, in relaying to you the foul words of Elendil the Traitor. He is to be commended for his bravery, in speaking thus with frankness." Turning to the Herald, he said. "The performance of your duties has been noted, and is received with thanks. You may go, and board your vessal forthwith."

"My lord" bowed the Herald, who looked ready to kiss Sauron's sandled feet. Rising, he again saluted the King, and then turned and went down the stairs, slowly at first, then as fast as his legs could carry him.

Smiling wryly, Sauron turned to the King. Ar-Pharazon's face was now ashen, as his initial shock at the Herald's words had subsided into a cold, simmering anger.

"My leige" said Sauron, "for years we have allowed the scum of Andunie to sit in their hovel at Romenna, and to gather to themselves the heretics of this land, like ants attracted to a honey-pot. Indeed, it was for that purpose I recommended you authorize their exile to Romenna. By making of them objects of sympathy amongst those disloyal to you, we have rooted out the many traitors who have flocked to their banner, and who might otherwise have long remained hidden before I could discover them one by one."

Sauron frowned. "But the time for tolerating their presence in this isle has ended. Ever since Amandil's diasappearance some months ago, on who knows what evil errand, his whelp Elendil has led the heretics of Romenna. He has long defied your laws by sheltering that Wolf's Head, Isildur. Now he has brazenly defied your commands in time of war, my liege, and added insult to injury! It is treason! Will you allow this Elf-friend, this puppet of the Valar, to defy you from the soil of your own land?"

"Infidel!" spat the King. "He dares to challenge me, to mock Ar-Pharazon the Golden, King of Men and Lord of the Earth! By Melkor, we shall send our armies against Romenna, and quickly! We have left a single regiment of Men at Armenelos, to maintain order there in my absence. They now have a more important mission; they shall march to Romenna, and demand the surrender of Elendil, and of Isildur as well. And if their demands are refused, they shall break open the accursed walls of that nest of vipers, no matter what the cost!" He smiled grimly. "I will not rest until Elendil's head is mounted on the Traitor's Gate, beside that of his whelp Isildur!"

"But what of Anarion, my leige?" asked Sauron demurely.

"That insipid little fool?" sneered the King. "I fear him no more than a doormouse! Still, I cannot believe that he has played no part in his father's treason. Elendil, Isildur, Anarion – all three are known heretics, and I deem the sons to have conspired with their father in his treachery."

"A sound conclusion, my liege" said Sauron. "And when they are arrested, how precisely shall we proceed? You will not be at Armenelos to dispense formal judgment on them."

"I have already convicted them, in absentia, of treason" replied Ar-Pharazon. "I could have their heads forthwith. However" he continued, with a cruel smile, "I deem that as heretics, they have placed themselves beyond those processes of law provided for by the temporal authority. Therefore, upon their arrest, they shall be conveyed into the hands of the spiritual authority, as represented by you, Lord Sauron. You may deal with them as you see fit."

"His Majesty is as generous as he is wise" smiled Sauron. "It is fitting that your war against the Valar shall be inaugurated by the sacrifice of their chief agents in this land. Melkor will be most pleased to receive them in His Temple."

The King signalled one of the Guardsmen to fetch a scribe from the group of attendants awaiting their sovereign at the foot of the tower. Some minutes later, the scribe, an aging man in robes of grey, stepped through the doorway to the balcony, his breathing laboured from the effort of climbing the stairs. He pulled forth from his robes a blank scroll, pen, and ink pot, and recorded the King's warrant of arrest for Elendil and his two sons, as well as his command that upon arrest they be placed under Sauron's authority. The scribe handed the warrant to the King, who dismissed him abruptly. With a salute, the weary scribe turned and began his long climb down the stairs.

Ar-Pharazon had decided to carry the Royal Seal on his person, during the war, as a symbol of his office. Removing the Seal from a pouch on his belt, and a tablet of wax, he gestured to one of the Guards, who struck a flint and tinder, melting a few drops of wax on the parchment. The King then affixed the Seal to the warrant, and handed it to Sauron.

"I will convey your commands to the regiment stationed at Armenelos, the moment I return there" said Sauron, saluting crisply. "Rest assured, I shall put paid to Elendil and his brood before you reach the shores of Valinor."

Ar-Pharazon laughed harshly, delighted by the thought. But then his laughter died, and he frowned deeply, staring towards the West. "By Melkor, what is that?" he cried. Sauron turned towards the Western horizon, and for a moment stood speechless, as shocked as the King.

The entire Western sky was now as red as the morning sky to the East! Against its crminson glow, dark shapes were forming. The shapes took form, and revealed themselves to be the shilouettes of giant Eagles, their wings of each beast spanning for miles across the horizon. All Men knew that the Eagle was the symbol of Manwe, Lord of the West. His warning to the Men of Numenor could hardly have been clearer!

Despite the distance that separated them from the ships in the harbour, the murmuring of the Men on board could be heard, soon giving way to a deathly silence. The battle-lust of the Men of Numenor had been quelled. With his far-seeing eyes, Sauron noted that the Men on board the ships were pale and frightened, as they realized the enormity of what they were about to attempt. The Royal Household Guardsmen, standing near the King, appeared petrified by the awesome display of Manwe's power. Even Ar-Pharazon himself, his features rouged by the angry glare from the crimson sky, began to show doubt on his face. Eyes narrowed, he glanced at Sauron with suspicion.

For the second time, thought Sauron, the Valar sought to thwart him, to offer a clear warning to the Men of Numenor! He recognized that he had to act, and quickly.

"This is nothing more than an attempt to frighten you, my liege!" said Sauron, in his clearest, most persuasive tone of voice. "Are you and your Men schoolboys, who blanch when their tutor threatens them with a birch switch? If, with Melkor's aid, we defeated these flying beasts themselves when they assailed Armenelos, why should we now fear their shadows?"

Sauron took the King by the shoulder, staring intently into his eyes. "The Valar are conjurors and tricksters, my liege. Lords of Illusion, and nothing more. Manwe seeks to frighten you from departing on your expedition, because he knows he will not be able to defeat you once you set foot in the Undying Lands! This mummery is but a last act of desperation on his part!"

"Yes, it must be, by Melkor" said the King, his resolve soon returning under Sauron's comforting influence.

Sauron withdrew his hand from the King's shoulder. "It is indeed a tawdry device, my liege, nothing that could ever stay the purpose of the King of Men. But" Sauron warned, pointing a slender finger at the King's armoured chest, "lesser Men than yourself are not blessed with your clarity of vision, your Majesty. Therefore, you must board your ship and depart at once. Without a moment's delay! For this ruse of the Valar may sap the ardour of your Men, until they see that their King is not in the least afraid! Then they will rush to prove their valour to you, lest they be ashamed in front of their fellows."

"Quite right!" cried Ar-Pharazon, a beaming smile forming on his silver-bearded face.

"Your Admirals shall bear you through the Enchanted Isles to the shores of the Undying Lands" said Sauron. "Your own prowess in war, and that of your Officers and soldiers shall, with the aid of Melkor, do the rest. When next I see you, you shall be the immortal King of Gods, enthroned on Mount Everwhite by Melkor himself! Now, for my part, I must return to the Temple, and keep Melkor's grace secure. Farewell, brave King! To Victory!" Sauron gave the traditional salute of Numenor, right hand clenched in a fist in front of his left breast.

"For Earendil and Numenor! To Victory!" cried Ar-Pharazon, transferring his scepter to his left hand, and with his right hand drawing his sword. "To Victory!" cried the guards upon the stair, their fighting spirits raised by the valour of their King. They escorted Ar-Pharazon down from the tower and towards the pier, where, accompanied by his attendants, he boarded a skiff that would take them to the flagship. They continued shouting "To Victory!", and as the skiff navigated its way through the ships of the fleet, the cry was taken up by the Admirals, Generals, and their Officers as they saw Ar-Pharazon proudly brandishing his sword and sceptre. "Ho, there is the King! To Victory!" they shouted. Their Men joined-in, and soon the deafening cry was issuing from more than two-million throats, echoing against the mountains, and thundering the defiance of the Men of Numenor across the Sea, to the ears of those false gods with whom they would soon be at war.

As Sauron watched from the balcony, the King's skiff pulled alongside mighty Alcondaras, and he ascended the gangplank. He strode towards the rear-deck, to a canopy of gilded silk. Under the canopy stood a golden throne, newly fashioned for the King's campaign. Ar-Pharazon sheathed his sword, reclaimed his scepter in his right hand, and sat upon the throne, proud image of the King of Men. He let raise his standard, and gave the signal to depart.

One by one, the ships of the Great Armament weighed anchor, the countless slaves who manned their banks of oars pulling them on the first steps of their journey into the West of West. All the while, the western sky grew an ever-deeper shade of crimson, while the dark wings of Manwe's Eagles beat menacingly, in futile warning against the folly of Men.

Sauron, his black hair tossed to-and-fro by the sea-breeze, watched the fleet for many hours, as its black-and-gold sails grew ever smaller. At length, even his far-seeing eyes could no longer discern any trace of it. Then, he permitted a satisfied smile to appear on his ruby lips.

"Yes, to Victory" he said, quietly. "The Victory of Sauron of Mordor, Dark Lord of the Earth! Poor Manwe. The Lord of the West has always sought to serve Eru faithfully, yet ever has his blundering served the cause of my master. Or should I say my own cause, for Melkor has long since departed from the Circles of the World, and the Valar themselves could not so much as speak with him even if they wished it."

"And farewell to you, King Ar-Pharazon the Fool!" Sauron continued. "It pains me to cast away useful tools, for I have spent years shaping and sharpening you. But, your use is now at an end."

The script of the One Ring glowing fiery-bright on his hand, a sardonic laugh displacing his once clear voice, Sauron continued smiling as he strode down the stairs and began his journey to the Temple of Melkor.

* * *

"Hurry, Isildur!" cried Anarion, panting with exhaustion, his sword stained with blood. "We cannot hold them off any longer. Signal for a last volley of arrows from your ship, and we shall flee under their cover!"

Nodding at his brother, Isildur whipped around, slashing his sword at one of the King's Men just before he could thrust his spear at Isildur's throat. As the man dropped to the ground, gurgling in his death agony, Isildur whistled to the archers on board his ship, which like Anarion's still stood by the pier.

At Isildur's signal, his Men gave a volley, cutting down the horde of red tunic'd enemy soldiers surging up the pier. "Now brother!" cried Isildur, and he and Anarion, turned and rushed toward their respective ships. No sooner had they stepped foot on the gangplanks than the sailors began to raise them into the air, depriving the King's Men of their quarry.

Isildur raced down the gangplank to the main deck, shouting "Heave to!" at the Captain. The grizzled officer nodded, and signaled to his sailors, who quickly weighed anchor. The ship, accompanied by Anarion's, sailed away from the pier, soon joining the seven other ships that awaited them in the harbour. A volley of crossbow bolts from the King's Men on the shore hurtled toward Isildur's ship before it sailed out of range, though but a few found their mark in the smooth white timbers of its hull.

As the Captain shouted instructions to his men, Isildur strode to the rear deck, and stared at the quays and wharfs of Romenna, now surging to the brim with thousands of red-tunic'd soldiers. He could hear their dimming cries drifting over the waters, as they mocked and jeered at himself and his kin. "Lord Sauron requests the presence of your company, at a feast to be held within the sacred confines of the Temple of Melkor" cried one, a black-bearded Sergeant with a deep, booming voice. "Surely you would not refuse his hospitality?" His men laughed, and jeered again at the Elendili. "Cowards, come back and get what's coming to you!" "Fools, where will you run? No land is beyond the reach of the King's long arm, or that of Lord Sauron!"

Cursing under his breath, Isildur ordered his standard to be raised from the mainmast, as Anarion had raised his own standard from his own ship, to signal to Elendil that he yet lived. He gave his sword to a servant for cleaning, and then looked back toward the shore, his gaze drifting from the town of Romenna, now swarming with the servants of Sauron, to the green mountains above, their peaks dusted with the first snows of autumn. Blood still racing through his veins, his thoughts turned to the events of that morning, when his father's plans had nearly met with disaster. Elendil had fixed this day for their departure, and had already boarded his own ship that previous night. His ship and six others, full of the citizens of Romenna, had spent the night at anchor in the harbour. Isildur and Anarion's ships remained at their pier, and Elendil's sons themselves had remained on land, racing frantically to make ready their departure. For though the White Tree had long since been stored under guard on Isildur's ship, and his family's valuables, weapons, horses and provinder had been efficiently secured below decks, some of the elderly, infirm, and less diligent citizens of Romenna had proved unready to depart, even though their peers had long since been ready to board the ships at Elendil's command. All night, Isildur and Anarion, accompanied by the guards and servants they could spare, had raced from house to house, gathering anyone they could find, forcing them to leave behind their valuables, and hurriedly escorting them onto the last two ships.

Then, shortly before dawn, when every last house in the city had been emptied, the skeleton force of guards manning the city's gate had sounded the alarm. Isildur and Anarion had raced toward the gate, only to crash into the fleeing guards, who told them that a vast army had appeared from the road to Armenelos, demanding the surrender of Elendil and his sons. When no reply was forthcoming, they had taken a battering ram and smashed their way through the gate, scouring the city for their quarry.

No sooner had the guards given their explanation, than a large party of the King's Men surged had around a corner, instantly recognizing Isildur and Anarion, whose robes were marked by the colours of their personal devices – blue and green for Isildur, blue and white for Anarion. Shouting exultantly, the King's Men rushed at the brothers, who realized that they had no choice but to run. Accompanied by the handful of their guards from the gate, they dashed along the winding streets and alleys toward the pier, an ever-growing pack of enemies dogging their heels. They had just reached the pier, and were within sight of their ships, when Isildur felt a crossbow bolt race past his head.

"Volley!" Isildur had shouted to the astonished sailors on his ship. "Enemies dog us! Fire a volley at them, hurry!" Realizing he could run no further, he and Anarion had turned, drawing their swords, hacking and slashing at the King's Men. As a volley of arrows from the small party of archers on Isildur's ship sank into the front lines of the enemy, Anarion had cried "To the ships, men! We'll follow!" The guards, whose spears had claimed the lives of their own share of enemies in defence of their lords, turned and ran toward the gangplanks, Isildur and Anarion close behind. But another wave of the King's Men had surged forth, and it had taken the second volley from Isildur's ship to clear the way for himself and his brother.

Isildur thanked the Valar for their narrow escape. Yet, as the exhilaration of victory began to fade, Isildur's heart felt heavy with regret. He had always held the fair emerald isle of Numenor dear, loving the land as much as its people – even more than its people, at times, if truth were to be told. Now he was losing his homeland, forever.

Although he cursed the folly of the mad King, he found his white-hot wrath directed against another. Sauron – the very thought of his name set Isildur's blood boiling. Sauron, and his accursed Ring, had been at the root of all the evil that had befallen the Numenoreans since his arrival, almost six decades ago, before Isildur himself had been born. Who would have thought, in that happy time, that the day would come when the Lords of Andunie and their followers would exile themselves for life from their homeland? Yet now it had come to pass. Isildur swore an oath by Eru that he would cut the accursed One Ring from Sauron's treacherous hand, and wave it in the Dark One's astonished face, now matter what the cost.

Isildur gazed at the green mountains of Romenna, their snowy peaks glistening in the first light of dawn. "Farewell, Numenor" he said quietly. "It is a pity that the Men who settled on your fair soil proved unworthy of your charms." Then he turned his gaze from the land, strode toward the helm and took his place by the ship's Captain.

For a time he stared across the harbour at the glittering Sea, and at the other eight ships of the Elendili. All the ships bore sails of snowy white, trimmed with cloth of blue and gold, flapping proudly in the sea breeze. Elendil's ship was in the lead, while Isildur's brought up the rear, Anarion's ship being the third ahead of Isildur's. The day was bright and clear, and well fit for navigation. The harbour chain had been opened the previous night, and following the others, Isildur's ship swiftly sailed past the city walls by the edge of the harbour and into the open Sea. Isildur turned his back to the shore, to take in a last, wistful glance at Numenor, Land of the Star. For a time, he stared at the snowy mountain peaks, as they faded into the vanishing West.

Then, Isildur's jaw dropped in astonishment, as he cried "By the Valar, what in Manwe's name is this?"

* * *

As the Eastern sky glowed with the rosy tint of dawn, Queen Miriel, mounted on an aging mare, ascended the slopes of Mount Meneltarma, on her way to the Hallow of Eru. Soft breezes restled the grasses of the mountain meadows, while the scent of rare flowers filled the air. Often, one could hear birds chirping as they flitted across the mountain meadows, yet Miriel was struck by their absence this morning as she ascended the mountain path. Had they already departed Numenor for the Southlands?

Miriel had not sought out the holy place since that long-ago day when the King had barred anyone from setting foot in the Hallow, under penalty of death. But now the King had departed, had been absent for weeks. Miriel had heard that the guards who barred entry to the Hallow of Eru had been dispatched to the muster at Andunie, and she felt thankful that the rumor appeared true.

Yesterday evening, she had stolen away from the Palace through her secret tunnel, dressed in the black and brown garb of one of her handmaids. At a public house amid the plains east of the city, she had paid coin to a fat, lame old innkeeper for a mare. The lecherous publican, leaning heavily on his crutches, had leered at her so openly that she felt fortunate she could escape his grasp with her horse, and her womanly honour, intact. Truly, the morals of the people had deteriorated markedly since the new religion of Melkor, which she believed to be a fraud concocted by Sauron, had been embraced by the King. In any case, she had ridden all night, and under cover of darkness began her ascent on horseback up the steep slopes of Meneltarma.

As the Sun continued to ascend the Eastern sky, Miriel fell into a contemplative mood. Despite her isolation from the people, she knew from the gossiping of her handmaids that the land had been abuzz with activity for months, with every able-bodied male, from tender youths to stolid grandsires, conscripted into the King's army. Ar-Pharazon had told the people only that he planned to fight a mighty war, but that for reasons of security its object would not be revealed to the soldiers until all was ready. He had revealed nothing to Miriel, but then, he never did.

She had her suspicions, though. At first, she could not imagine how there could be an enemy left in the world against whom the King would require such an army. But after his departure, she had heard rumors from Andunie that the King's fleet had sailed into the _West. _For a time, she could not credit these rumors, for all Men knew that to sail into the West was banned.

But then, she recalled the fearsome assault by the giant Eagles, just prior to the King's departure for Andunie. The Eagles, she knew, were the servants of Manwe, and had surely been sent by the Valar as a warning against the blasphemy of the Numenoreans. Somehow, Sauron had used dark sorcery to drive away the Eagles, and had saved his foul Temple from their attacks. Since that episode, the people had fallen ever more firmly under Sauron's spell. Even now, the fiend was esconced in his Temple, performing his rites of devil-worship.

Still, she felt certain that Pharazon himself had been shaken by the sight of the Eagles, and their raid against his Palace and Temple. The night before his departure, she had seen him stalking around the Palace Garden, shaking his fists at the starry sky, and vowing revenge against the Valar. Thinking back on that night, Miriel now began to suspect that the King, whatever purpose he had originally envisioned for his armada, had sailed into the West, in a futile attempt to avenge himself against Manwe! It might seem utter folly, yet Miriel knew her wretched husband well enough to be certain that, in his madness, he was quite capable of such a scheme. If that were his design, then he would undoubtedly send dozens of his ships to crash against the rocks of the Enchanted Isles, before admitting the futility of his goal. No doubt Sauron had urged him on in the mad enterprise, and even now was laughing at him behind his back.

Fortunately, every cloud had its silver lining. Now that Pharazon was no longer here to oppress her, Miriel had welcomed the opportunity to escape from the Palace, and the wretched hedonism of her servants and courtiers. She keenly felt the need to soothe her troubled spirit in this place of sanctuary.

Her need for solace was especially acute, for some nights ago - several weeks after the King's departure from Armenelos - Miriel had been troubled by a strange dream. A mysterious presence had shown her a vision of the land of Numenor in flames, followed by a vision of the slain White Tree, growing anew in the soil of Middle Earth. The presence had warned her, as one the Faithful Ones, not to tarry in Numenor, but to depart with haste. Then, the dream had ended abruptly, and she had awakened in her chambers, trembling and full of doubt.

Miriel had pondered the dream ever since, and still did not fully grasp its meaning. She was loathe to abandon the ancient land of her Royal House. But, in any case, if she were not to tarry in Numenor, then where could she go? She could no more journey to the West than could any mortal. Yet, surely she was not meant to journey to the the East, to Middle Earth, for that was the land of Sauron the Abhorred himself.

That she should see the likeness of the White Tree growing from the soil of that distant land puzzled her. Isildur had taken a seed of Nimloth the Fair years before; did the vision reveal that he would now seek to plant it in Middle Earth? Was she being told she should accompany him, in spite of her belief that her duty was to remain at Armenelos? She had resolved to journey to the Hallow of Eru in the hope that, within its sacred precincts, she would receive guidance about the dream's meaning.

Miriel's thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound, a deep, booming roar, which she could compare to nothing in her experience. Curious, where did it come from? She looked up, towards the peak of Meneltarma. To her astonishment, she could see a thin trail of steam spewing forth from the Hallow of Eru, as if a fiery chamber far below had been unblocked, and was spewing vapour through a fissure in the mountain's skin to scorch the blue sky.

A sudden chill of fear ran down Miriel's spine, as her horse screamed and reared up. It threw her from her saddle to land flat on her back, knocking the wind out of her. She lay still for some minutes, gasping for breath, until she felt the strength to pull herself to her feet. Staring down the grassy slopes of the mountainside, she could see her mare galloping madly away from Meneltarma, as fast as its aging legs could carry it.

A great wave of heat rose up behind her and traced warm fingers along her back. Turning to face the summit of Meneltarma, she saw that huge tendrils of hot steam were surging for miles into the air. The ground began to shake beneath her feet, only slightly at first, but then sharply and suddenly, again throwing her flat on her back. As she began to slide down the mountain path, she grasped at the grasses with her right arm, seeking to steady herself, while her useless left arm dragged by her side. The booming noise she had heard earlier grew ever louder, and the western sky was plunged into utter darkness. She turned toward the West, and saw that Doom which was presaged by the thunderous roar echoing across the land.

Her face pale with fear, tears in her eyes, Miriel turned her pleading gaze to the heavens, crying out for Eru to spare her...

* * *

So far, Ar-Pharazon reflected, everything had gone according to his plans. Already, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams of but a year before!

Three days after they had sailed beyond sight of Numenor, the Armada of Wrath had seen the shadowy mists of the Enchanted Isles rise before them. Using the device Sauron had mounted on his flagship, the King's captains had able to see through the mists, just as Sauron had said they could. Even so, it had taken several weeks of careful navigation to thread the long flotilla of ships through the razor- harp rocks that lay concealed in the mists. But the King's Admirals were excellent sailors, and they led the fleet through the Isles without the loss of a single ship. Then they set sail over the warm, aquamarine waters that girdled the land of Valinor.

Valinor! That place of legend, banned to Men, was now within reach! The once threatening signs in the sky, the great Eagles that had hovered over the Enchanted Isles, were no longer visible. They, like the mists of the Isles, had proved to be an illusion. The skies were now blue and clear. The Sun shone brightly during the day, and the Stars and Moon glistened at night, while a wind from the East filled the sails of the King's ships. Truly, the favour of Melkor was with the Men of Numenor. Ar-Pharazon thanked himself that he had listened to Sauron's advice, and allowed him to return to the Temple to ensure Melkor received the proper sacrifices due to Him.

The fleet sailed over the calms seas for some weeks. The King's Admirals had appeared somewhat puzzled that they could no longer see the beacon from the Tower of Avallone. Persumably, their Great Armament had been spotted, or the Falmari Sea Elves had received word of warning from the Valar, and in either case the beacon had been extinguished. The Admirals consulted the ancient maps of Valinor that the High Elves had given to one of the King's ancestors, ages before. Following the maps, and reading their position from the Sun and the Stars, the Admirals directed the fleet to sail steadily into the West.

On the afternoon of the seven and thirtieth day since their departure from Andunie, a long, white line appeared on the western horizon – the coast of Valinor itself! The Men let up a great cheer, blowing their brazen trumpets, and banging their mighty drums of war. Then this morning, at dawn on the the eight and thirtieth day, the land itself rose up before them. The vast, stony wall of the Pelori Mountains, their peaks enshrouded with snow, soared above from the western horizon. Towering over the Pelori stood Taniquetl, Mount Everwhite. A radiant beacon of the purest white light stood gleaming upon Oliosse, its uttermost summit.

As Ar-Pharazon stared at the snowy shoulder of Taniquetl, and gazed upon the beacon from the Palace of Manwe, he had felt a vague stirring of misgiving deep within his breast. The light from the beacon seemed to his eyes cold and harsh, devoid of pity or sympathy for Men. He knew that he could expect no mercy from the Valar, should he fail in his quest. Nor could he hope for clemency from Melkor, who, as Sauron had often told him, rewarded failure with death. He stood between these titans, and felt as if he were but a pawn on the game board of the Gods. It was far too late to turn back. Yet, now that Valinor was within his grasp, he hesitated to step forward.

But then he hardened his heart, and his old pride reasserted itself. Great reward entailed great risk, and only a giant among Men, fearless and bold, could hope to wrest from the Valar their Blessed Land. That giant was none other than himself! He was Ar-Pharazon the Golden, and, with the grace of Melkor, he would soon have dominion over this land, and those that dwelt therein!

The ships of the fleet sailed ever westward, the land unfolding before them. Encompassed by the Pelori Mountains was the Bay of Eldamar, glistening in the rising Sun. Very near to the fleet, the emerald green isle of Tol Eressea rose up from the middle of the Bay. The Tower of Avallone was clearly visible, though its beacon had been extinguished.

Most curious was the utter silence and stillness that lay upon the land. Long ago, said the Chronicle of the Kings, the High Elves who had visited Numenor had told of dolphins playing in the waters of the Bay of Eldamar, of swans flying in the air above, and of sweet voices drifting over the Bay from Valinor. Yet now, apart from the lapping of the waters, and the noises of the sailors at work on their ships, there was no sound or movement at all. It was as if the land itself held its breath.

But the Men were not troubled in their hearts. They cheered and trumpeted and drummed again, for they were thrilled beyond measure to see these places of legend with their own eyes! And they were champing at the bit to land ashore: for their King had recently told them that they had merely to set foot on the soil of Valinor, and they would receive eternal life! They only hoped for fortune in the battle they knew lay ahead, since it would be a bitter irony to receive the eternal life of the Elves, only to have it stolen away by a well-aimed Elvish arrow.

Of the Elvish people there was no sign. The fleet tacked North-west, past the shores of Tol Eressea, verdant with exotic trees that bore both fruit and flower year round, past the Tower and the gleaming white houses of Avallone. The Men saw from their ships that the city was utterly empty. "One of the homes of the Falmari, the Sea Elves of the Undying Lands" said the King, lecturing his Admirals. "They have ever been a craven, faint hearted lot. When we land on the coast of Valinor, we'll doubtless find their city on the mainland, Aqualonde, is abandoned as well. It appears, as you suspected, that from their Tower at Eressea, they would have seen the black and golden sails of our ships some days ago. Thus they had ample time, not merely to extinguish their beacon, but to abandon their homes and flee inland."

Ar-Pharazon snorted with disdain. "Doubtless we shall not encounter any of these so-called High Elves, though I deem them but lackeys, until our army has marched up the Pass of Light, and arrived at fortress of Tirion. We cannot advance beyond, into the realm of the Valar proper, until we take that fortress. Since it is held by the Noldorin Elves - who, we must admit, have ever been a proud and warlike race - it is likely before the walls of Tirion that we will have our battle." The Admirals nodded, but remained silent. Their only concern was with lining the ships of the fleet along the shore without mishap – what took place after that was no longer their responsibility.

But the Admirals' task could not have been easier. They had feared a great fleet of the White Swan Ships of the Elves would sail out to meet them in battle, before they ever reached the shores of Valinor, and were prepared for that eventuality. Yet as their King had said, it appeared the Sea Elves were indeed craven, for they had left open the approaches to the Bay of Eldamar, and abandoned their corner of Elvenhome, without so much as a whisper of protest, not even daring to show their faces. Perhaps, whispered the Admirals amongst themselves, Ar-Pharazon had spoken truly - the High Elves and Valar were indeed weak behind all their mummery, and knew they could not withstand the armies of the King of Men.

Sailing nigh to Aqualonde, the Swan-Haven, whose walls and towers of white marble and lapis lazuli nestled at the foot of the Pelori Mountains, the ships of the Great Armament lined in a vast column along the Northern shore of the Bay. Each ship drew parallel to the coast, its starboard side facing landward so that the sailors could throw down its gangplank. In this configuration, all the ships of the fleet would be able to disgorge their cargo of Men and equipment simultaneously, so that the entire Army could disembark in a matter of hours.

The ships weighed anchor, furled their sable and golden sails, and then set their gangplanks upon the shore, which glittered with gems. Indeed, the Men could now see that where a land of mortals would have had a beach of sand, the entire length of the beach that lined the base of the great, stony mountains was made of gemstones! Fired by greed for wealth, as much as for life eternal, the soliders rushed down the gangplanks, whooping with joy when their feet set foot upon the shore. Dropping their siege equipment, they took-off their iron helmets and began scooping the gemstones into them. Soon they had the appearance of a disorganized rabble, wandering ever farther along the narrow shore.

The Admirals looked to the assembled Generals, still on the ships, and smiled grimly. _Their_ work was done successfully – now it was the Generals' turn.

Barking orders, the whips of their Sergeants at the ready, the Generals and their Officers, armoured by plates of polished iron, and swathed in red tunics bearing the design of the black serpent, marched down the gangplank. Some lashings of the whip here, and the quick removal of a few swollen heads there, soon reminded the soldiers that while they might now be immortal, like the Elves, they were still just as vulnerable as Elves to implements of war. Their military discipline restored by threat of punishment, the soldiers cast the gemstones from their helmets – "Plenty of time for that AFTER the battle, lads" the Sergeants had shouted – and formed up into orderly regimental columns, their polished iron shields glinting in the Sun, their siege equipment held ready for use. Each column had its standard, a black serpent on a red field above the regiment's own design, held up proudly by its oldest or most experienced Man.

In this fashion, reflected Ar-Pharazon, had the day's events transpired. Now, it was late afternoon, and already the snows of the Pelori Mountains were brushed by a rosy glow as the Sun sank towards the uttermost West. The King, smiling with satisfaction, stood at the helm of his flagship Alcondaras, and gazed with swelling pride at the vast army of the Men of Numenor, two million strong, who stood at attention along before him. He had shown his power to the High Elves and the Valar – now the time had come for him to step ashore, and claim the seat of the Manwe for himself!

Striding down the gangplank, a magnificent figure in his flowing red cape, shining armour, and bejeweled silver crown, he set foot upon the land, the gemstones scraping beneath his silver-shod feet. The soldiers gasped for a moment as he sank to his knees, clasping the gems in his hands. Then he stood up to his full height, well over six feet, and held a pile of gems aloft in each fist. "Just as I have seized these gems" he cried "So have we all seized eternal life! So shall we seize all the length and breadth of this fair land! So shall we seize Godhood for ourselves!" A tremendous roar of approval issued forth from the Men, who began clashing their spears against their shields, their shouts and brazen trumpetings and warlike drumming echoing across the Bay of Eldamar to the far shore, and back again, trailing up to the heavens themselves.

A white steed was brought down the gangplank for the King, as well as horses for his Generals, and parties of trained cavalrymen. The Officers would lead their Men on foot, escorted by cavalry detachments along their flanks. The King mounted his horse, and one of his servants brought him his golden scepter, which he took with his left hand. Ar-Pharazon then drew his sword with his right hand, its steel blade flashing. "Onward to Victory!" he cried, and the Army surged forward, the deafening rumble of two million pairs of iron-shod feet almost drowning out the raucous calmour of the drums and trumpets.

Sheathing his sword, the King, followed by his Generals, rode his horse to the head of the cavalry vanguard, and led the Army along its planned route. For some hours, they marched along the shore, until they came upon a road paved with white flagstones. That road led out of the pearl-studded gates of Aqualonde, and ran westward up the Calacirya, the Pass of Light that lead over the Pelori Mountains into the plains of Valinor. The Men halted at the gates of the city, which appeared to have been abandoned. A small party of scouts was dispatched to ensure that there was not some sort of ruse, they reported that all was as it appeared – Aqualonde truly was empty.

Spitting on the ground with disgust at the cowardice of the Sea Elves, Ar-Pharazon turned his attention toward the Calacirya. He could now see the white and pink marble towers of the fortress of Tirion, perched on the crest of the Pass. Even with his aged eyes – though age no longer held any meaning for him! – he could see the light of the fast-setting Sun glinting off the golden armour of the Noldorin Elves, who, it appeared, had manned the walls of their fortress with many warriors.

"At least now we shall have a proper battle" said the King to his Generals. "It would be dreadfully anti-climactic if this entire realm fell to us without any resistance. I would be almost disappointed. Onward!" he shouted, turning to the Army. "We have but to take this fortress, and this entire land shall be ours! There is nowhere in the plain beyond these mountains where the Elves can put up an effective defense against us!" The Officers relayed the King's words along the columns of Men, who let up another great cheer, and began their long march up the pass, toward the fortress of their High Elvish foes.

By the small hours of the morning, the rather winded Men of Numenor found themselves within the Pass of Light. Before them towered the walls of Tirion, which sat in a narrow cleft between the sheer rock faces of two vast mountains. Tirion itself was seemingly fragile. Its thin outer walls were formed of waving bands of white and pink marble, pierced by a single gate. The gate was covered by a drawbridge, formed of a strangely tinted metal. From the green hill of Tuná encircled by the walls grew many elaborately carved houses and towers of marble, crowned by the watch tower of Mindon Eldaliova.

The silver lamp which legend said ever blazed from the top of the watch tower had been extinguished by the Elves, presumably in a vain attempt to frustrate the night-assault of their Mannish foes by plunging the valley into darkness. The night sky was clear, and the light of the stars and the Moon showed the Men every detail of the valley, as well as the walls and towers of the fortress, and of their Elves who guarded them. A deep ravine sat between the walls of the fortress and the Men, the rushing waters from the mountains to the North roaring through it, and downward in a twisting easterly direction to the Bay of Eldamar. Many thousands of Noldorin warriors stood upon the battlements of Tirion, their famed Elvish bows in their hands, quivers full of arrows at their backs. Some of the Elves, golden haired and radiant, were armoured even more elaborately than the rest – apparently, a few of the Vanyar warriors of Valimar had chosen to join their Noldorin kin in the defence of Tirion.

Ar-Pharazon knew, from a chapter of the Chronicle of the Kings recording a visit to Numenor by the High Elves, that the delicate appearance of the fortress was deceptive. The thin, fluted marble walls were covered with a sheen of adamant, utterly impenetrable to any siege-engine or bombardment. The doors of the gate and the drawbridge, formed of mithril, were also invulnerable. Since the drawbridge had been drawn up in front of the gate, and the walls were quite impenetrable, the Men would need to bridge the ravine and climb atop the walls with their siege-ladders if they were to have any hope of taking Tirion. Take it they must, for the fortress guarded the only way to the exit from the Pass, and so to the rolling green meadows and forests of Valinor beyond.

Ar-Pharazon also knew that within the courtyard of the watch tower was planted Galthilion, the sacred White Tree of the Noldorin Elves, and parent of that White Tree of Numenor which he had ordered to be burned in the fires of Melkor. The King gloated at the thought of also offering up this parent Tree as a sacrifice to the Lord of Darkness. That it would soon burn within the smoking ruins of Tirion itself was an especially sweet revenge against the haughty Elves! He would permit those Noldor who survied the battle to witness the destruction of their beloved tree, before casting them into the flames after it.

Of course, first he had to take the fortress itself. Ever fond of pomp and ceremony, Ar-Pharazon sent forth his Herald to the edge of the ravine. The Herald, clad now in armour of gold and silver, and wearing a magnificent golden helmet topped by a red plume, stood still for some moments, stroking his brown beard, and glaring brazenly at his Elvish foes. Then he took up a scroll, and loudly read its demands that the Noldorin Elves of Tirion surrender their city to its new lord and master, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden. The Herald recived a hail of Elf-arrows in reply – all of them sank into the ground just below his feet, except for one, which sheared the red plume from his golden helmet, rendering his appearance rather absurd. Quivering with humiliation, he stalked back to his King.

"Are we to suffer this insult at the hands of a pack of womanly Elves, lads?" shouted Ar-Pharazon from his white steed. Drawing his sword with his right hand, while with his left hand brandishing his golden scepter, he cried "Bring forth your ladders! Up the walls and at them!" With a roar of battle-fury, the red-tunic'd, iron-clad Army, two-million strong, bearing their siege-ladders, surged forth in cohorts up the narrow Pass.

Then Men ran into the storm of Elf-arrows that hailed down from the walls of the Tirion, only to fall by the thousands to the ground, or into the depths of the ravine. The iron shields of the Men proved not strong enough to withstand the mighty steel-tipped arrows of the Elves. Some of the Vanyar cast enchanted spears, each of which skewered half-a-dozen Men at a time. As wave upon wave of Men were cut down, it seemed for a time that Tirion was invulnerable, that no hostile army could hope to break its defences

But then, the Elves began to realize that their own military strength paled in comparison to that of Numenor. For every Man who fell, ten were ready to take his place, screaming with blood-lust as they charged against their Elvish foes. The King's own archers fired crossbow bolts at the Elves, and brought down many of them. As the vast tide of Men surged closer, closer, inexorably, their siege-ladders were lifted up to the walls of Tirion.

The walls proved even more treacherous than the King had imagined. As the ladders tried to find a grip, the Elves turned levers that rotated sections of the battlements, throwing off the grapping-hooks and sending the ladders plunging into the ravine. Still, even as some were knocked away, bearing the Men surging up them to a watery death below, many other ladders found a firm grip on the walls.

Their store of arrows running desperately low, even though they had barely made a dent in the Numenorean Army, the Noldorin and Vanyar Warriors defending the battlements reached for their wicked-looking pikes. A pall of despair marring their fair faces, they prepared to meet their deaths at the hands of the Men of Numenor, who had once been Elf-friends.

From a safe distance, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden sat upon his white steed, and watched the battle rage under the stars and the Moonlight, until the pale light of dawn glimmered on the Eastern horizon. Soon, very soon, the way to Taniquetl, Mount Everwhite itself, would lie open and undefended! Soon he would reign as a God, the King of Gods, himself!

* * *

From the Palace of Manwe and his Queen Varda atop Taniquetl, the Valar looked down on the Calacirya with sorrow and despair. In spite of the warning signs in the sky that Manwe had offered them, in spite of the courageous resistance of the Noldor and Vanyar at Tirion, these Men of Numenor still would not turn back from their folly! The Valar could see that the Elves were badly outnumbered, and the fortress would fall to the King's Men by morning. Then there would be no obstacles to stop their march down the Pass into the plains of Valinor, to stop them from ravening though the defenseless, unwalled golden city of Valimar, and even up the hallowed slopes of Taniquetl itself! 

What was to be done? Many of the Valar, and those Maiar spirits who served them, were crafters and shepherds – they were of no use in combat. Others were mighty in war, yet of these there were only a few. The High Elves of the Undying Lands had taken refuge at Tirion, the strongest fortress in the land. If Tirion fell, they would be annihilated, and nothing would stand between the Numenoreans and the Palace of Manwe itself.

The handful of Valar and Maiar who were skilled in the arts of war, aided by Manwe's Eagles, could do great damage. They could wade into the battle with their weapons of enchanted mithril, and with lightning, and fire, and frost, and winds, and mists, and other devices. Yet even these measures would not be enough to stop the vast surge of Men that would sweep over the plains of Valinor, before the Blessed Lands were reduced to a smoking ruin. That the Valar would not allow. But how were they to stop this vast army of Men without laying waste their own land? And how were they to prevent the survivors on the isle of Numenor from raising a new army, and sending it against them yet again?

At length spoke Manwe, King of the Valar, and Lord of the West. He sat beside Varda, known to the High Elves as Elbereth, their beloved Star-Queen. From his crystal throne, which glowed with a brilliant inner light, Manwe told his kindred what they already knew in their hearts. They could not stop the Men of Numenor themselves, except by measures that would leave the length and breadth of Valinor a blackened, ruined waste. Moreover, the Men of Numenor, under Sauron's dominion, would take only a few decades to replenish themsleves, and then the terrible cycle would begin again. If the Valar were to save themselves, their Elvish charges, and the Blessed Lands from such a fate, they had only one choice. They must call upon Eru Illuvatar himself to intervene, and do as he saw fit.

Varda, her radiant beauty tinged by her sorrow, spoke in favour of Manwe's arguments. She held that the time had come for the Valar to set aside their dominion over the World, and place all things in the hands of Eru. And though they quaked at the prospect of invoking the great Creator, whose thoughts were well nigh inscrutable to them, the Valar, at the last, assented reluctantly to the counsel of Manwe and Varda. In truth, they knew they had no other choice.

Manwe stood up from his throne, raised his hands in supplication, and in his deep, clear voice, called out to Eru:

"O Eru" he cried, "thou who kindled the Flame of Anor, who spoke the sacred Word that brought the World into being, knowest thou that the holy realm of Valinor is under siege? Yea, it is beseiged by the apostate Men of Numenor, who in their folly seek to become as gods themselves, rebuking the fate thou hast set for them. They have given credence to the lies of Sauron the Abhorred, and have worshiped the Great Enemy, Morgoth Bauglir, through many abominations. Yet none exceedeth this! We, the Valar, charged by thee with custody and safekeeping of this World, cannot drive off these apostates, save through grievous harm to the Blessed Lands. We throw up our hands, and implore thee for aid! Do thou what seemeth fit, to save this realm and its people, restore order to the World, and chastise these wicked Men!"

For a long time, there was silence. Then the Valar felt the clouds from the Sea begin to drift westward, forming a vast, dark bank of thunderheads that blotted out the light of the Stars and Moon, and cast the whole of the Undying Lands into shadow. The Valar looked at each other uncertainly, for they knew that summoning Eru meant invoking a Power far beyond their imagination, one whose mercurial ways and ultimate purposes were a mystery, even to them.

Then, a mighty voice, deeper than the depths of the Sea, and stronger than the foundations of the Earth, pealed forth from the Heavens. _"IT IS DONE!"_

The Valar hid their faces in their hands, and wept.

* * *

The cataclysm was unleashed in an instant. One moment, the vast Army of the Men of Numenor was surging up the siege ladders toward the walls of Tirion, its Elvish defenders preparing for a last desperate stand. The Numenorean Officers ignited and brandished their torches, for a thick bank of cloud had plunged the Pass into darkness, and the valley glittered with thousands of flickering orange lights.

Then, an immense surge of cold, white water rushed down the ravine, smashing against the walls. It swept away the ladders of the attackers, almost reaching up to wash away the astonished Elves who defended the battlements. A moment later, a titantic groan issued forth from the Pelori Mountains, and a mighty cracking sound reverberated across the Calacirya, as if an entire mountain had been torn from its roots.

The King and his Generals sat astride their proud steeds, which now reared back, screaming and foaming at the mouth with panic. Ar-Pharazon stared upward, and for a brief moment his face wore a blank expression of utter disbelief. Then, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden, his Generals, Officers and Sergeants, and his Army of two million Men of Numenor, were buried as the entire mountain to their north slid off its foundations, smiting them in its ruin. In future times, the Noldorin Elves of Tirion, whose city would be approached by a new road carved along the southern side of the Calacirya, would refer to this vast barrow mound as the Caves of the Forgotten. There the King and his Men would lie imprisoned until the Last Battle and the Day of Doom.

From their post along the shore, the King's Admirals and their crews, encamped on the gemstones of the beach, and pondering grimly the swirling storm clouds massing above them, heard a mighty cracking and rumbling echo down the Pass of Light, reverberating far across the Bay of Eldamar. They were puzzled, but never had a chance to learn what had happened - for a moment later the mountain beneath which they encamped itself gave forth a fearsome moan, and crashed down upon them! The surge of the Sea caused by the falling mountain, which grew into a vast wave a league high, swept away the more than two thousand ships of the King's fleet, and within minutes they capsized and sank to a watery grave.

Thus, in less than a quarter of an hour, the Great Armament, the mightiest fleet and the mightiest army ever assembled in the history of the World, was swept into oblivion by the Wrath of Eru.

That was only the beginning. For now a great trembling and shaking of the Earth swept across the disc of the World, from the West of West by the Door of Night on beyond the western frontiers of Valinor, to the East of East, those mysterious lands beyond Middle Earth that lay nigh to the Door of Morning. All across the World, the Seas boiled, the Winds howled, the Earth shook and groaned. And the focal point of all this chaos soon became clear – the Isle of Numenor, amidst the Western Sea.

In their Palace on the summit of Taniquetl, the Valar trembled, and prayed that the Power they had unleashed would relent before it destroyed all the World in its fury.

* * *

On the helm of Isildur's ship, the Captain and Officers turned and looked back towards land on hearing their lord's cry. Then their mouths gaped in amazement. Soon, they were joined by all the officers and crew who stood above decks on all the nine ships of the Elendili.

From the summit of Mount Meneltarma, which from this distance appeared a small eminence jutting above the Western horizon, a massive jet of white steam shot forth, dwarfing the puny smokes from the Temple of Melkor to the East. For several minutes the steam surged upwards, spreading in vast clouds across the land, while on the Western horizon immense thunderheads appeared, spreading East with incredible speed. A sudden wind picked up from the West, and within seconds turned into a mighty gale, pushing the ships of the Elendili eastward.

"Furl up the sails, quickly!" shouted Isildur to his Men, who scurried to comply as he turned his gaze back to the incredible scene. Now mighty waves were being lashed up by the winds, and Isildur had to grab hold of the wheel to steady himself. Yet even as the ship heaved up and down in the waves, which grew vaster with each moment, Isildur stared in awe and fear at the scene of doom before him.

For, with a mighty roar that echoed across the world, Mount Meneltarma had exploded! Where moments before had been a pillar of steam, now a towering pillar of fire, dwarfing that which he had seen inside the Temple of Melkor, shot up from the mountain until it singed the very Sky. The pillar of fire continued to ascend, and countless fiery rocks hurled from it over vast distances, until the whole isle of Numenor was pelted by them. Wherever they fell, they set fire to the grass, the trees, and anything else that would burn. Within ten minutes, the once-proud island, which was now visibly trembling in its death agony, burned with countless spreading fires, the dark smoke from their burning rising up and obscuring his view of the land.

Yet even that was not the end. From the West issued a vast, rumbling noise, which presaged a wave of such incredible height that those Men who saw it could scarce believe their eyes. More than a league high it stood, and as it rolled forth, quenching the fires of inner Earth that scarred the tortured land, the hills and mountains gave up their struggle, and were devoured by the Sea.

Lashed by heavy rains that poured forth from the dark clouds above, too awestruck and terrified to weep, Isildur merely stared as that land which he had known as Numenor, but which was later known to Men as Atlante, the Fallen Isle, slipped forever beneath the waves. He prayed that the Wrath of Eru - for such he now believed Amandil's and Elendil's dreams to portend - would never be directed against himself.

* * *

On his throne of carven ebony, Sauron sat motionless as he saw his Temple begin to collapse about him. The blast wave from the explosion of Meneltarma, which had swept away the Palace of Armenelos as if it were child's sandcastle on a beach, had barely scratched the Temple of Melkor. For the Temple had been built with the power of the One Ring, and no mere wind could do it harm.

But, Sauron reflected, as pieces of the Temple's silver-domed ceiling began to crash to the ground, and the screams of his terrified priests echoed in his ears, what the Sky's winds could not accomplish, the force of the Earth, the Sea, and perhaps of Fire, could. Mighty earthquakes shook the land, and a great surge of seawater welled up from the basin that had held the now extinguished fires of Melkor, even as huge fiery boulders crashed through the silver-domed roof, melting it in some places, and sending pieces of it tumbling to the floor in others.

One of Sauron's priests ran up to him, beseeching him to call upon Melkor, and end the wrath of the rebellious Valar. Sauron, somewhat absently, lashed out with his foot, which plunged through the Man's chest as if it were a rotten board. When the body hit the ground, he propped his other foot up on the priest's lifeless head, rested his chin on his fist, and allowed his thoughts to dwell upon how he had fallen victim to this catastrophe.

Sauron was not a god, although he had long aspired to be one, and it often served his purposes to gull mortal fools into believing that he was. Eons before, in the days when the world was young, Sauron had been one of the Maiar, the army of elemental spirits that served the Valar, and assisted them in the shaping of the world. Sauron, for his part, had been an elemental spirit of the Earth, long before he had been seduced by Melkor into becoming a mighty demon who served the forces of Shadow and Flame. Sauron's bond to the living rock of Earth was still very strong, and even without the power of his One Ring, he could have felt the movement of the Earth as if were part of his own body.

He knew the convulsions of the Earth, centred upon Numenor, were spreading across the entire disk of the World. Everywhere he cast his thoughts, he could sense that the Earth was in turmoil, as if it were being rent from its very foundations. Volanoes were erupting, even in his own Orodruin in Mordor; earthquakes shook the lands; in some places, mountains were rising from the plains, while in others, they were sinking into the ground. Here new lands rose up from the Sea, and there, old lands plunged beneath it. He could feel the Sky and the Sea doing their part in the Earth's torment, lashing it with winds, and sending mountainous waves crashing against its shores. Moreover, were the Enchanted Isles had once stood, he felt a mighty chasm opening beneath the depths of the Western Sea, drawing Numenor down into the abyss. It was as if the disc of the World were being torn asunder, with Valinor pulled in one direction, Middle Earth and the East of East pulled in the other, and Numenor torn to pieces between them. He could even feel the Eastern, mortal lands welling up into a mighty dome, as if they were beginning to form a giant sphere.

Sauron had known full well that the wrath of the Valar would be awesome. His scheme, formed nearly six decades before, had always been to seduce that grandiose fool Ar-Pharazon into launching open war against them. He trusted the Valar to do their part by sweeping the Army and Navy of Numenor into the depths of the Sea, and then returning to their ancient slumber.

Afterwards, there would be no one left who could oppose his dominion over the mortal lands of Earth, from Numenor to the East of East. The women, whelps and old dotterers who survived on Numenor, and enquired of what had happened to their menfolk, would accept whatever story their High Priest told them. The Queen could be quietly dispatched if she caused any further trouble. The so-called Elendili, even if they escaped the King's Men, would be no match for his own vast armies in Middle Earth.

But, he had not expected the Valar's revenge to be so sweeping and terribleHe had not even believed it was possible – indeed, he knew it was not possible. Surely they had not been rash enough to call on Eru for aid? How did they know He would not shake the World to its very foundations in His wrath?

The Wrath of Eru was not a topic on which Sauron cared to dwell, especially as he began to realize that he was witnessing it, and that it was directed in large measure against himself. Sauron fought to quell a rising tide of panic within him. What did Eru intend? Surely He was not going to destroy the entire World, His own creation?

That Eru would be unwilling to do so had always been the foundation on which Sauron's plans had stood. Sauron's ultimate design was to gain power over all the mortal lands of Earth, and then hold them and their inhabitants hostage, while suing Eru for peace and recognition. Sauron would propose that just as Eru recognized the Valar as the Lords of the Undying Lands of the West, he would recognize Sauron as Lord of the Mortal Lands of the East. The Valar could claim sovereignty over the Elves, and to that effect Sauron would deport the remaining Elves of Middle Earth to Valinor. He would claim sovereignty over Men. Then, with the World divided between the Valar and himself, to he would bring order and dominion to the lands and the Men under his sway, and shape them as he saw fit. Sauron did not even imagine his intentions toward Men to be entirely malevolent. Once they learned to serve him without question, he would reward the most deserving amongst them with many gifts of skill and knowledge they could use to pull themselves up from the mire of Middle Earth, and find some purpose to their all too brief existences.

That Eru would reject such a scheme, and utterly destroy all the World, had not even entered into Sauron's mind. Had he made a fatal error? Was his ambitious scheme for dominion mere folly? Willing himself to be calm, as ever larger pieces of masonry crashed around him, and the last of his priests met their end, Sauron cast his mind deep into the Earth again.

After some moments, he realized with a flood of relief what Eru intended. He did not mean to destroy the World. Rather He was reshaping it, a great Change of the World. The Undying Lands of Valinor were being torn from the Earth, presumably so they could be set in some other plane of space and time, free from the risk of further ravages by Men. The mortal lands of Middle Earth and the East of East were welling into a giant sphere, its edges wrapping around itself so that the East of East, conjoined with new lands rising from the waters, would now lie to the West of Middle Earth across the bent Seas. The Sun and Moon were shifting their paths – it even seemed as if the new Earth would revolve around the Sun, although the Moon would continue to revolve around the Earth. The light from Earendil's Silmaril was taking on a new shape, forming a gleaming sphere between the Earth and the Sun. Sauron could also sense that an intangible bridge was forming between the North-western reaches of Middle Earth, and the Eastern reaches of Valinor – perhaps some means by which the Elves of Middle Earth could sail to the Undying Lands, even as those lands were placed beyond the reach of Men?

Only Numenor, then, was slated for destruction. Unfortunately, reflected Sauron, as a massive piece of masonry crashed within feet of him, and boiling hot sea water lapped at his feet, that left him with a difficult problem. How was he to escape from Numenor, amidst all this unforeseen chaos? Any boats in the waters nearest to Armenelos would already have been dashed to pieces by the giant waves surging against the shore. But he needed to devise a plan, and quickly, or his body and his One Ring would soon lie entombed forever beneath a heap of silver and marble at the bottom of the Sea.

Sauron focused his mind, and realized that only one path lay open to him. His corporeal body was the problem, but the One Ring offered the solution. With a tinge of regret, he realized that he would miss his current body. It had served him well for over two thousand years. He had even become somewhat vain about its comely looks, and had allowed himself to feel absurdly pleased when it received admiring glances, or was the object of flattery praising its ethereal beauty.

Still, it could not be helped. If he did not act swiftly, his body would soon be entombed beneath the waves in any event. So long as he was in physical contact with the One Ring, he could focus his power through it to dissolve his body in a controlled manner, one that would allow him to adopt a form more appropriate to his current situation, and would carry his spirit and the Ring back to Mordor.

He had consumed much of his power through the crafting of his present form, and doubted that he would ever be able to adopt another guise so pleasing to the eyes of Elves and Men. But then, he had no further need for such a form. The time for flattery and seduction was at an end; now it would be time for open war against the remnant that opposed him. He would forge a new body for himself, more appropriate for that purpose.

His object set, Sauron closed his clear, blue eyes for the last time, and focused all his will on the task at hand, the script of the One Ring glowing more brightly than ever before as he channeled all his power through it. Had any of the falling Temple's priests still been alive, they would have seen Sauron's black and crimson robes fall gently onto his ebon throne, while his body began to fade, until it became translucent, like a sheet of glass covered with hoar-frost. Then, his once-fair features began to shift and dissolve in a most disgusting manner. Curiously, the One Ring remained floating in the air where his hand had been, even as the rest of him dissolved into a writhing, shapeless mass. Now the mass was growing darker, until it took shape as a cloud of black, shifting smoke. The dark cloud drifted until it centered on the One Ring, which glowed brightly from its shadowy heart.

Great heaps of masonry and cinders of burning rock hurtled through the dark cloud, yet it was not in the least affected by them. Rising slowly into the air, it emerged through the collapsing dome of the Temple, where it was caught by a mighty surge of wind that poured out of the West. Unbeknownst to Sauron, that wind had been sent to hasten the passage of the Elendili from fallen Numenor to the shores of Middle Earth. Yet now it also served to carry the Shadow from the East back to the seat of its power.

As his shadowy form, bearing the One Ring, soared high over the roaring Seas, and the last remants of the isle of Numenor sank into the boiling waters, Sauron reflected on the curious ways of Eru. Even as He sent His winds to scour the world of the forces of darkness, He also helped those forces to attain their purpose all the more quickly. Even as Valinor had been forever removed from the grasp of Men, so Sauron, who no longer had to share the World with the Valar, could gain sole dominion over all the Earth.


	12. The Last Alliance

**XII.) The Last Alliance**

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On a cool spring day in the year 3320, Isildur and Anarion retired to a marble-walled chamber within the fortress keep of Pelargir, on the western shores of the Mouths of Anduin, and enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath. As he leaned against the oak-lined tub, and relaxed in the warm water, Isildur reflected on the present position of their people.

When the mighty storm had whipped up, and Numenor sank beneath the waves before his very eyes, the nine ships of the Elendili had been separated. Four of them, including that bearing Elendil, had been driven northward, while the remaining five, including those bearing Isildur and Anarion, had been driven eastward. After many days of being tossed to and fro on the stormy seas, the Men and Women on board sick to their hearts as well as in their stomachs, the thunder clouds suddenly disappeared, the Seas became calm once again, and the green coastline of Middle Earth appeared on the eastern horizon.

Their ships unfurled their sails, and steered past the sheer cliffs of the Isle of Tolfalas, finding themselves by the mouth of the Great River Anduin. Snaking their way through its muddy channels, they came upon Pelargir, unsure of whether it would be held against them by the King's Men. When they arrived at the city, they did not see the accursed black serpent banner of the King's Men flying from its pink granite walls, but rather the traditional banner of blue and green. The ships then weighed anchor at the mud flats of the western shore of the river, beyond which lay green fields littered with the toppled trunks of Oak and Cypress trees.

As the refugees disembarked, a party of guards from the city came out to greet them. These guards had informed the brothers that the city had been largely abandoned by the King's Men when they received the summons to the muster at Andunie – only a skeleton force was left behind to maintain order. The guards explained to Isildur and Anarion that the citizens of Pelargir, perhaps because of their ancient ties to the Elf-friends of Romenna, had had adopted the worship of Melkor only under duress. Thus, amid the fury of the howling storms, they had risen in rebellion against those few of the remaining King's Men who had held the city. Many of the King's Men were slain by the rebels, and the rest had fled east across the Anduin.

Pelargir had not been untouched by the great cataclysm, for tidal waves had swept the many ships docked in its harbour to founder miles inland, after which the Anduin had shifted its banks, leaving the city's ruined piers and warehouses stranded some distance from the shore. Isildur was pleased to see that, now that the winter had passed, many of the refugees were helping the citizens of Pelagir build new docks by the river, even as others, encamped in the fields outside the city, were assisted by the Pelargirians in building new houses for themselves.

A strongly-built, grey-bearded man, Ulbar by name, was a native of the city who had long served in its guard, and the first citizen of Pelargir to hail Isildur when he set foot on the soil of Middle Earth. Since the rebellion, the citizens had appointed him Captain of those native-born guards who had been secretly disloyal to the King's Men. He and the other citizens of Pelargir had first reacted to the tidings of the fall of Numenor with shock and disbelief. Yet, they could not gainsay the pale visages, blank stares, and frightened expressions of the refugees from Romenna. Nor could they credit the earthquakes, raging winds, and tidal waves they had suffered through themselves as being anything other than evidence of divine wrath for the blasphemies of Ar-Pharazon.

Recently Ulbar, a look of distaste spreading on his features, had informed Isildur and Anarion of unwelcome events in the South. Several scouts who had been dispatched to the Southlands had reported that there had been no revolt in Umbar, and that the King's Men who held that city, joined by their counterparts from Pelargir, had heard the spreading rumours of the fall of Numenor. Soon after, they had changed their banner to a green serpent on a red field. This they held up as the heraldic design of their self-styled Empire of Harad, for they intended to bring the Men of the Southlands under their dominion.

"The Empire of Harad, indeed" Anarion had said. "Those Black Numenoreans will become nothing more than servants of the Black Land, whether they realize it or not."

But despite this ill fortune, Isildur and Anarion had also received some good news. Using their Palantiri, they had managed, after many failed attempts, to establish contact with Elendil. His five ships had been driven far to the North-west of Pelargir, and into the Gulf of Lune, landing at Mithlond, the home of Lord Cirdan of the Falathrim Sea Elves of Middle Earth. Elendil's friend Gil-galad, High King of the Elves of Middle Earth, had sailed from Forlond to Mithlond to meet with Elendil, and confer with Cirdan.

The Elves of Middle Earth had not escaped the troubles that had shaken the World, for a great surge from the Sea had swept through the Gulf of Lune, carrying away many of the more fragile buildings of the Elvish havens, drowning some unfortunate Elves, and forcing the rest to seek shelter high in the Blue Mountains, before the storm subsided and they could return to their ruined homes. In Forlond, Gil-galad's fair garden had been swamped with seaweed, and many of the wooden houses were in ruins. Even now the Elves of Lindon were hard at work, undoing the damage that had been done.

"My Lords Gil-galad and Cirdan" Elendil had said through the Palantir "feel it is crucial that all of us, and others besides, take counsel together. You must equip a suitable party for your bodyguard, and take with you some guides native to Middle Earth, who can show you how to find your way. Your escort must be small, for I do not wish to strip Pelargir of its defences, lying as it does so close to the Black Land. Ride west to the Gap of Angren, or Isen as some call it, and then north, until you come nigh to the Ford of Bruinen. This route is less direct than the route north along the Anduin and west across the Misty Mountains, but it is safer, for King Gil-galad tells me the Mountains are infested with Orcs. At the Ford of Bruinen, a party of Elves will meet you, and guide you to Imladris, which Men call Rivendell, the house of our distant relative Master Elrond, brother to our forefather Elros. Rivendell, thankfully, has largely escaped the calamities which beset the World. There you will find me, with High King Gil-galad and Lord Cirdan. Also you will find Queen Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, whom Master Elrond has summoned to his house from their hidden realm of Lothlorien. They will cross the High Pass over the mountains with a large armed escort, so if you earn their friendship during your time in Rivendell, you may with luck persuade them to permit your accompanying them on their journey home, speeding your return to Pelargir by the shorter path."

"At Rivendell" Elendil had explained, "we will take counsel from all these wise and mighty folk, and decide what is to be done. For neither Gil-galad nor Cirdan feel that Sauron has perished, even though he was present on Numenor when it fell. Through some sense beyond my ken, they are certain that his fell spirit has returned to Mordor. Therefore get you to the House of Elrond, and quickly!"

Isildur and Anarion had of course assented to their father's commands. Their bath this morning was the last one they would have for a good two months, since that much hard riding lay before them. Isildur looked at Anarion, and then scooped up a handful of water and threw it at him playfully. Anarion laughed, something that he had not done in a long time. Then he smiled wanly. "Well brother" he said, "while we won't be having any more baths for awhile, I for my part do not mind. I have seen enough splashing water to last a lifetime."

* * *

Two months later found at Rivendell Isildur, Anarion, Elendil, and the Elven Lords and Lady summoned to council; Elrond, Gil-galad, Cirdan, Celeborn, and Galadriel. It was a beautiful, warm late spring day. The sky was a clear blue, and occasional blossoms from the nearby orchards drifted on gentle currents of air, to touch the eaves of Rivendell.

Those present at the council were seated outdoors on a patio, by one of Elrond's elaborately carved wooden halls. From there, they could see the emerald-green forests of Oak and Beech that climbed the steep walls of the hidden valley of Imladris. They could hear the echoes of the rushing waters of the river far below, which blended with the sweet voices of Elvish minstrels, singing in joy and wonder of the morning of the year, the flourishing of trees and flowers, birds and beasts under the Sun.

Isildur took in the beauty of the scene, and realized that while it could never take the place of fallen Numenor, Middle Earth was not without its own charms. Someday, he hoped he would come to love his new homeland in this changed Earth as much as he had loved his old one. For he had heard Master Elrond say that with the downfall of Numenor, all the world appeared to have changed. The Elves were strongly bound to the Earth, and could feel that it now took the form of a giant sphere. The eastern and westernmost surviving mortal lands had been wrapped around this sphere so that they almost touched each other. A Man sailing west from Middle Earth would in time find himself upon the shores of what had once been the East of East. The Undying Lands appeared to have been removed from this new Earth entirely, although Lord Cirdan claimed that he could sense an invisible bridge that now led from the Gulf of Lune by his Grey Havens into the Sky. He believed that this bridge would allow those Elves who wished it to depart Middle Earth for Valinor, even if that journey now bore them into a hidden realm.

Isildur, cursing his tendency to let his mind wander at council meetings, turned his attention back to the matter now at hand.

"Then you believe we must forge two kingdoms in exile?" asked Elendil.

Master Elrond, dark locks held back by a circlet of silver, cool blue eyes staring at his distant kinsman, nodded his assent. "For" he said "the lands west of the Anduin are too vast, and your followers are too few, to easily control them from one capital. Therefore, this is my suggestion; you, Elendil, will be the High King of Numenor-in-Exile. But you will also form your own realm, here in the North if you like, of which you will assume day-to-day control. Your sons, Isildur and Anarion, are now thirty and twenty-five years old respectively. That is young even by the measure of Men, but old enough to deem that they have reached the age of maturity, and may be placed in a position of authority. They should form their own kingdom - in the South, if you choose the North - which will acknowledge your sovereignty, but over which they will assume day-to-day control. When the time comes, you should select one of them to rule the North Kingdom after you, while the other rules the South Kingdom."

"I see the wisdom behind your plan, and agree to it" said Elendil. "And I shall make my selection now. The North Kingdom I shall call Arnor, Land of the King, and its capital, which I shall name Annuminas, the Tower of the West, shall be by the shores of Lake Evendim, not far from the havens of Lord Cirdan. The mountainous South Kingdom I shall call Gondor, Land of Stone, and its capital shall be Osgiliath, the City of the Stars. I explored the lower Anduin years ago, after the so-called Great Victory against the Enemy. I know the perfect place for the capital of our South Kingdom, on a section of the river that lies between the snowy peak of Mount Mindoluin in the West, and the pine-forested vale that runs into the Mountains of Shadow in the East. We shall divide the Palantiri amongst our realms. There will be three for Arnor; another for the guard tower we shall build by the Ford of Angren, or Isen as some call it, which will sit on the frontiers of the Two Kingdoms; and three for Gondor. After my time, Arnor will be appointed to Isildur and his heirs, while Gondor will be appointed to Anarion and his."

"And mark you" he said, turning to his sons, "until we have defeated the Shadow from the East, the defence of the South Kingdom will be especially important. For your South Kingdom of Gondor sits on the western marches of Mordor. Therefore we shall also construct two fortresses to shore up the defences of Osgiliath. To the West, below the peak of Mount Mindoluin, we will build one fortress, which shall be named Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. Anarion shall have command of it. To the East, in the pine-forested valley of which I spoke earlier, hard on the very frontiers of Mordor, we shall build Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon. Since you, Isildur, are the more warlike of my sons, you will have command of that fortress, and from there you will keep a close watch on the Black Land. Only after the final defeat of the Enemy, and after my time, will you entrust that fortress to your brother, and remove yourself to your North Kingdom of Arnor."

"It shall be as you wish, my liege" intoned the brothers, bowing their heads. Silently, Isildur vowed that he would plant in their new land of Gondor the sapling of the White Tree he had carried to Pelargir, so that his father's prophetic dream would be fulfilled completely.

"And as to the Enemy", said Elendil darkly, while turning to Gil-galad and Cirdan. "Is there any doubt remaining that Sauron has returned to Middle Earth, even though he was in Numenor when it fell?"

"Of his return I am certain, I am sorry to say it" said Gil-galad, his blue eyes staring grimly at Elendil from beneath his golden circlet.

"The High King speaks truly" said Cirdan, a frown deepening the lines on his face. Cirdan was a curiosity among Elves, the only one who had allowed his features to age until his appearance was like that of a grey-haired, elderly Man. "There can be no doubt the Enemy dwells again in Middle Earth" he emphasized.

"But how can you be sure of this, my Lords?" asked Anarion, puzzled. He felt ashamed to doubt the words of such ancient and wise beings as Gil-galad and Cirdan, yet he also felt the issue of the Enemy's fate was too important to let pass. "The Dark One dwelt ever in his foul Temple at Armenelos, near the center of Numenor" he continued. "The cataclysm descended upon the land so suddenly, I do not see how he could have escaped. Even had he boarded a skiff, it would have capsized, or been dashed to pieces against the shore, before he could have reached the open Sea."

Queen Galadriel turned to Anarion. He stared at her in awe, for her golden hair shone in the light of the Sun, and the youthfulness of her radiant features was belied by her deep blue eyes, redolent with secret knowledge and ancient lore. Smiling gently, she said "The whereabouts of the Enemy are ever clear to us, to King Gil-galad, Lord Cirdan, and myself. For, as long as the One Ring rests upon the hand of the Enemy, ringbearers can feel his dark presence, even if they do not wear their own rings upon their fingers."

"You mean…" said Anarion.

Galadriel stared meaningfully at Gil-galad and Cirdan, who nodded at her. Each of them then drew forth, from thin golden chains about their necks, the Three Rings of the Elves which had lain hidden beneath their robes. The three Men present stared open-mouthed to see such objects of Power assembled in one place. Even Elrond and Celeborn appeared to be stirred by the sight. Each of the three ringbearers spoke in turn.

"This is Vilya, Ring of Air, mightiest of the Three, which heals the bodies and soothes the spirits of those in need of comfort and solace" said Gil-galad, holding up his blue-gemmed ring of gold.

"This is Vanya, Ring of Fire, which inspires courage and strength of will in the hearts of Elves, and perhaps of Men" said Cirdan, indicating his red-gemmed golden ring.

"This is Nenya, Ring of Water, which slows the ravages of time, and preserves from decay those things that else would fade under the Sun" said Galadriel, holding up her clear-gemmed ring of white gold.

The Elves and Men present could hear melodious tones, as the Three Rings greeted each other, delighting in each others' company. But then the ringbearers swiftly concealed their treasures beneath their robes.

"You are sure these Elven Rings cannot be used against the Enemy?" asked Elendil.

"We have discussed this before, my friend" replied Gil-galad. "Keeping these rings near our persons, we can sense his presence while he bears the One Ring on his own hand, yet he can only vaguely sense ours, for he had no direct part in the shaping of the Three. But if we wear these rings on our fingers, which we must to use their powers – for they were so crafted – then we will be fully revealed to him as long as he bears the One Ring. He will know all our thoughts, and all our secrets, and we will have no hope of besting him. Therefore they must remain hidden, and we must defeat him through open war."

"But how is that possible?" asked Elendil. "You yourself have told me of the strength of his armies. You could not best him in war, when your own armies were greater than they are today."

"There is more to war than the size of armies" said Lord Celeborn, the Sun shining off the silvery hair that contrasted with his smooth features. "We were defeated by Sauron in our last wars against him in no small part because he caught us completely unawares, and used the element of surprise against us. But for long centuries have we watched him, and we have developed many stratagems that could be affected against his forces. These will be easier for us to implement now that our armies are supplemented by yours, small as they are. And we can also seek aid from our kin in the Greenwood east of Anduin, who have recently sworn fealty to my cousin Thranduil; while for your part, you might try and rally at least some of the wild Men who live west of Anduin to your banner. But for now, we are not strong enough to assault Mordor, which at present lies under the control of the foul Ulari and their Witch King. We constantly watch the Black Land, but we must wait for the Enemy to strike at us beyond its iron-walled frontiers before we can engage his forces in battle. That may not happen for some time, for I suspect that Sauron's body was indeed destroyed, for the reasons that you noted, Anarion. In that case it could take him years to gather sufficient strength to forge a new physical form for himself. When he does, and moves openly against us, we must join together in an alliance of Elves and Men, if we are to succeed!"

Celeborn then smiled grimly. "'Tis a pity it cannot also be an alliance with the Dwarves. For there are many of them, and they are doughty warriors, whose axes have turned the tide of many a battle. But since the folly of the Elves of Eregion, who unwittingly served the Dark Lord's purposes, the Dwarves have broken off their friendship with us. They will defend their own mountain strongholds against Sauron, but they will not come to the aid of Elves for any price or plea."

"Then perhaps they will come to the aid of Men" said Elendil, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. "For they have no quarrel with the Men of my House, and I am certain we can offer them many prizes of value in exhange for their services against the Enemy."

"Perhaps" said Celeborn, doubtfully. "Though Dwarves are hard and crafty, and you are not likely to get the better of a bargain with them. But by all means, entreat their aid – perhaps you will succeed where we have failed."

"So be it" said Master Elrond. "Whether we have the aid of the Dwarves or no, we have formed today the foundations of what shall in time be an Alliance of Elves and Men. Perhaps the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. For should we defeat the Enemy, there will be no more need for alliances in war, and our two peoples can live their days under the Sun in peace and friendship, rather than mere alliance in the face of common peril!"

"And I have a gift for you, Elendil!" continued Elrond. He gestured towards his waiting servants, who brought a long, black velvet sack towards him. Rising from his seat, Elrond reached into the sack, and pulled out a great sheathed sword of steel. He pulled off its sheath with his left hand, and with his right hand swung it through the air several times. With each swing, the blade seemed to sing, as if with a clear, sonorous voice.

Turning to Elendil, he said "This sword is Narsil. It was forged for the Elves by Telchar, the master Dwarf-smith of Nogrod in Beleriand in the Elder Days, and enchantments were placed on its blade by our Elven-smiths. The Elves and the Dwarves were still friends then. Narsil can wound the Dark Lord and his Ringwraiths in battle, where mortal steel could not. Guard it well, and use it wisely. Let it symbolize the bond between your House and mine, for I shall always remember that you and your heirs are the descendents of my dear brother Elros, and I shall render such assistance as I can to you and your kin for all my days." Elrond then presented Narsil to Elendil.

Elendil took the sword by its hilt, and with it made a few passes of his own through the air. He looked at Elrond and smiled. "My thanks to you, Master Elrond, for this is indeed a regal gift. Between you and Gil-galad, I am spoiled by my friends. Narsil, which I deem the Sword of the King, shall henceforth be an heirloom of my House, and a symbol of the ties of blood and history that bind your House to my own. May it bear us to good fortune in the war that lies ahead!"

"War" said Isildur. "Aye, it's one thing to speak of it, but the winning of it will be the hard part, and that is yet before us."

* * *

In the Saamath Naur, those Chambers of Fire in the heart of Orodruin that Men called the Cracks of Doom, the shadowy spirit of Sauron began to assume its new form. For more than a century since the fall of Numenor, his spirit had dwelt within shadowy recesses of the Barad-dur. Lately, he had withdrawn to the the Sammath Naur, drawing strength from the Fires of the inner Earth. Now, he was ready to declare himself openly as the Dark Lord of the World.

The lake of fire far below bubbled and hissed, and cast its orange glow through the sulphrous air of the chambers, as a dark shape began to emerge above a precipice that jutted over the lake. The letters on the One Ring shone brightly as it did its master's work. Then, after many hours, the form that it had sought to fashion had taken shape. Sauron of Mordor was reborn !

He stared down from his new height, twice that of the tallest of Elves and Men. The One Ring had expanded to fit the huge, taloned third finger of his right hand. Coal-black, burning hot skin covered his massively muscled body. His fiery eyes, burning with ferocity and rage, reflected redly from his new armour, which lay in pieces on the ground below. That armour, forged of steel in the Barad-dur, had been fashioned by his finest armourers according to his own design.

He had communicated that design though his lieutenant, the Witch King of the Nazgul. The Witch King presently stood outside the Sammath Naur with a group of Orc captains, and chiefs of the wild Men of the East and South. They had been summoned to Orodruin to greet the return of their master Sauron. Though their armies had been decimated by the calamities that struck Mordor during the Change of the World, the survivors had swiftly multiplied, and were now more numerous than ever before. Also summoned were the Lords of the Black Numenoreans of the South, whose worship of Melkor had been displaced by that of Sauron, to them a living god. The Black Numenoreans had aligned themselves with Mordor against their hated kin, the Numenoreans of Gondor and Arnor.

Sauron picked up the cruel mace of steel that had been forged for him. He swung it through the searing air of the chamber a few times, and smiled, yellow fangs projecting over his coal-black lips. Soon, this mace would annihilate those fools who continued to oppose him! The very shape of the World had changed, and yet Sauron had endured this calamity, just as he had endured many previous calamities in many previous ages. The One Ring had indeed served its master well.

Sauron set down the mace, and clothed himself in his new armour, from the steel-shod boots to the horned helmet that masked his new, terrifying visage. His armoured form was intimidating enough – there would be little purpose in causing all Men who served him to die of fright simply by gazing at his exposed face.

He picked up his mace again, and strode out of the Saamath Naur to the narrow ledge that lay beyond its entrance, high up the slopes of Orodruin. Far below he could see the barren wastes of Gorgoroth, dark under the twilight sky of Mordor. On the Northern horizon, soaring a mile above a spur of the Ered Lithui, stood the magnificent Barad-dur, soon to be capital of all the World!

Sauron next turned his attention to the puny creatures cowering before him. Several iron-clad Orc-captains groveled in the dirt, their leathery, hideous faces contorted with fear. The fur-clad, black-bearded chiefs of the wild Men of the East and South, and even the handful of well-armoured Black Numenoreans who accompanied them, seemed terrified of the gigantic new form of their Cruel Master. Sauron could smell their fear drifting up from them, and to him it was a balm.

To the side of these terrified minions stood one being who was not afraid, did not even make a pretence of grovelling. Although only half his stature, the Witch King of the Nazgul simply stared at Sauron for a moment, then briefly bowed his head.

Undoubtedly, thought Sauron, having to spend half a day in the company of the Witch King had unnerved the Orcs and Men even before he himself had stepped forth from the Saamath Naur. For the armies of the East and South feared the one known them as the Witch King nearly as much as they feared the Dark Lord himself. To their eyes, Sauron knew, the Witch King was a seven foot tall giant, clothed in robes of sable and armour of steel, with only shadow under the cowl where his face should be. He was an ancient being of nightmare and legend.

Only Sauron knew his true identity, and saw his true form. Two thousand years ago, he had been Ar-Murazor of Numenor, younger brother of King Tar-Atanamir the Great, that monarch who had received the emissaries of the Valar with displeasure, and later severed relations between Numenor and the Elves. Barred from the throne of Numenor by the laws of inheritance, Ar-Murazor had directed his energies into the pursuit of lore instead, leaving his homeland when he had exhausted its vast libraries, and traveling far and wide through the wild lands of Middle Earth in his pursuit of esoteric knowledge.

In this fashion he brought himself to the attention of Sauron, who in those days still called himself Annatar, Giver of Gifts. Ar-Murazor's researches, as it turned out, had the twin objects of increasing his own sorcerous power, and of prolonging his life. Sauron favoured him by making him the first mortal to whom he granted a Ring of Power, one of the Nine Rings of Men. Ar-Murazor greedily accepted this gift, for Sauron had promised the Prince that the Ring would grant him both immense power and eternal life. Through Ar-Murazor, Sauron had learned that the Men of Numenor feared death above all other ills, and lusted for power above all other desires. By manipulating their fear and greed, he could control them completely. This lesson was the first of many ways through which Ar-Murazor had proved himself invaluable to the Dark Lord.

But alas for this Prince of Numenor, his power and seeming longevity had not come without a price. Within his robes and armour, his body was invisible to mortal eyes. But to Sauron he appeared an emaciated figure, wrapped in a tattered grey shroud of the style favoured by the Numenoreans two thousand years before. He bore upon his head a coldly-gleaming crown, festooned with sharp spikes that jutted upward. His ancient, withered visage, framed by deathly white hair, was drawn up in a permanent scowl. His face glowed with a pale corpse-light, a noisome light that illuminated nothing. His eyes were cold and blank, windows into emptiness. On the mouldering third finger of his right hand, he bore a curiously carved ring of silver and gold, set with a jewel of amber; his Ring of Power, symbol and instrument of his enslavement to the Dark Lord. Now he was simply the Witch King, first and most powerful of the dreaded Ringwraiths.

Staring up again at Sauron, the Witch King intoned, in his sepulchral voice, "What is thy bidding, master? Command us Sauron, Lord of the Earth, and we shall realize whatever thou doth desire. For what dost thou wish us to strive?"

"_Dominon!" _Sauron's voice, deeper than the lowest dungeons of the Barad-dur, was cold and hard. The Orcs were now gibbering with fear, while many of the Men appared to have fainted, and lay sprawled in the dust. Where they belonged, thought Sauron.

"How shall we attain Dominion for you, master?" intoned the Witch King's hollow voice. "Whom do you wish us to ravage and poison, to torment and slay?"

Sauron scowled beneath his steel helmet. From the Barad-dur, he had long ago perceived the landing of the Lords of Andunie and their followers in Middle Earth. Since then, his spies had kept a close watch on their misdeeds. Those fools had even dared to found their South Kingdom hard on the frontiers of Mordor, in mockery of his own power! Now that his armies were rebuilt, and he was incarnate as the Dark Lord, he would make them pay dearly for their insolence.

"Hunt the dogs of Gondor and Arnor, and their kennel-masters, the Elves of Middle Earth", Sauron rumbled in his deep, harsh voice. "Slay them all, down to the last mewling child."

"What our Cruel Master wills, we shall execute at once" droned the Witch King. Then he turned to the Orc captains, pointing his armoured finger down the path to the base of the mountain. The Orcs gibbered and whimpered. Dragging those Men who had fainted, while followed by those trembling Men who still retained their wits, they crawled back down the mountain to issue commands to their own followers.

The Witch King then turned back to Sauron. "My eight brothers and I have seen to it that your armies have grown strong, master. Though these vermin disgraced themselves with fear in your dark presence, they shall fling themselves with battle-lust and fury against the enemy."

"Of that I have no doubt" rumbled Sauron. "You have done well. We have only to fight this last war, and then our victory will be complete!"

The Witch King nodded silently, staring at the One Ring that gleamed brightly on his master's hand.

* * *

In the year 3441 of the Second Age, one hundred and twenty-two years after his ship had borne him to the harbour of Pelargir, Isildur the Strong lay sprawled in the dust of Gorgoroth, awaiting his doom.

In an instant, the main events of the previous century flashed before his eyes. Isildur and Anarion had built their South Kingdom just as Elendil had instructed. They had even carved mighty images of themselves in stone from the cliffs of Anduin north of Sarn Gebir, and the Pillars of the Kings formed an ominous warning to those who would trespass against the lands of Men.

For decades their South Kingdom, and their father's North Kingdom had flourished. Isildur and Anarion had both married, and raised sons of their own. Isildur had planted the sapling of the White Tree in the courtyard of Minas Ithil, fulfilling his father's prophesy. But always, the Shadow to the East glowered over their lands. They had kept a wary eye on Mordor, fearful of the unknown evils that festered behind its frontiers.

Then, twelve years ago, the Enemy had launched his assault against the Men of the West. Minas Ithil was suddenly besieged by the dreaded Ringwraiths, who used many terrible magics against its defenders. They took the fortress for themselves, renaming it Minas Morgul, the Tower of Dark Sorcery. Isildur and his family had barely escaped, taking with them only the Ithil-Palantir, and a Fruit and Flower of the Ithil Tree, rescued by Isildur just before the Witch King himself had taken the axe to that child of Nimloth. The Ithil-Palantir was now hidden on the western shores of Osgilitah, and Fruit of the Ithil Tree was stored under lock and guard in the highest tower of Minas Anor.

Isildur and Anarion's spies soon learned of the rumors amongst the Black Numenoreans of Umbar that Sauron had returned, openly declaring himself Dark Lord of the World. His capture of Minas Ithil was but the first phase of his end game for dominion. Soon he would launch his assault upon Gondor, and then sweep north through Arnor and the lands of the Elves. Gil-galad and Elendil, the High Kings of Elves and Men, consulted with each other, and formed their long-planned Alliance.

Through many clever stratagems, and many brave deeds, the Alliance of Elves and Men had done much to harass and weaken the Enemy. In this they had been assisted by a great host of the Wood Elves of the Greenwood, East of Anduin. These wild Elves had avoided previous wars against Sauron, but now they fought under the banner of King Thranduil, a cousin of Lord Celeborn who had recently tamed these sylvan kin. They were valuable allies, for the quick arrows of the Wood Elves had felled many a marauding Orc and wild Man of the East over the years.

Moreover, many wild Men from West of the Anduin had sworn allegiance to the High King Elendil and his heirs. They had long suffered from the depredations of their Eastern kin and of the Orcs, and they were eager to avenge themselves now that they had powerful allies. The Numenoreans-in-exile had moved swiftly to civilize and train them, and in time they formed the backbones of the armies of Gondor and Arnor.

The Alliance was assisted as well by the axes of the Dwarves, for Dwarf Lords of Khazad-Dum, who had spurned the entreaties of the Elves, agreed to enter into the service of the High King of Men - in exchange for much gold - until Sauron was defeated. In all, the Alliance had assembled a force two hundred and fifty thousand strong.

Set against them were the nearly one million troops in the service of the Enemy, including not merely the Orcs and the wild Men of the East and South, but also those Black Numenoreans controlling Harad, whom the Gondorians had named the Corsairs of Umbar. Even a few wicked Dwarves, who had become estranged from the Men of the West, served the Dark Lord. Yet, for all their superior numbers, the servants of the Enemy were driven solely by fear or greed, and their battle spirit proved less than that of those who fought for their freedom and honour.

At first, the Enemy ravaged the lower vales of Anduin, burning to the ground that half of Osgiliath east of the River. But then, for a time, it seemed as if the tide had turned in favour of the Alliance. They had smashed a mighty army of the Enemy on the Dagorlad, or Battle Plain, that stood in front of the Black Gate of Mordor, although many Men and Elves died along with the Orcs before victory was attained. The triumphant army of the Kings of Elves and Men had surged through the barren vale of Udun into the heart of Mordor. They encamped on the ashy plain of Gorgoroth, in front of the very gates of the Barad-dur itself. There, they had lain siege to the Dark Tower.

But there also, their good fortune was exhausted. For the Barad-dur, its adamantine battlements and pinnacles rising a mile above the plain, was the mightiest fortress ever built. Behind its fiery moat it sneered at every attempt by the Alliance to gain purchase on its walls. For seven long years it endured their siege. Elves and Men, and even the handful of hearty Dwarves who accompanied them, had grown weary of their encampments in the sterile, twilight plain of Gorgoroth, and longed for even a brief glimpse of the Sun, or the forests, or of glittering gemstones in secret caverns.

Fortune still favoured the Alliance now and again. A large detachment sent from the camp on the plains of Gorgorth had recently managed, with the aid of many Elves, to drive the Ringwraiths from Minas Ithil. Even now, they were seeking to cleanse it of the filth of the Orcs that had garrisoned the fortress. Three of Isildur's sons had led the retaking of Minas Ithil, and were there now, although his youngest son Valandil, who was still but a child, was safe behind the walls of distant Annuminas with his mother.

Yet, despite this victory, the siege of the Barad-dur, which appeared increasingly futile, continued, and matters went from bad to worse. One month ago, Isildur's family had been struck by tragedy when Anarion was killed by a stone hurled from the Dark Tower as he led a doomed assault against its adamantine walls. Now Anarion's son Meneldil had taken in his place in the throne room of Minas Anor as Co-Regent of Gondor. Elendil had almost seemed broken by the loss of Anarion, although he could not be seen to loose faith in front of his Men, or in front of his ally, Gil-galad, whose tent was next to his own.

Compounding this tragedy, when Isildur ordered a large host of the Men of the White Mountains of Gondor to help break the siege of the Dark Tower, they had betrayed their sworn oath to him, refusing to answer his summons to war. To punish them for their treachery, Isildur laid a terrible curse on them. In life, they would fade and diminish as a people, till they were no more than a memory. In death, the shades of their warriors would never find rest till they had fulfilled their oath to Isildur or to one of his heirs as King. Isildur was avenged against them, but the bitterness of loss, compounded by betrayal, further dampened the spirits of the Men besieging the Barad-dur.

Then, just this morning, events had taken a shocking turn. The steel-clad doors above the iron bridge of the Barad-dur had opened, and out had rushed a vast horde of Orcs! Elendil and Gil-galad could not fathom why the Enemy had abruptly reversed his strategy of drawing out the siege. It may have been because the Alliance had rashly dispatched so many warriors to retake and hold Minas Ithil, though it could also have been that even the vast stores of the Dark Tower were exhausted after a siege of seven years. The fact that the horde consisted entirely of Orcs, and was devoid of Men, was certainly suggestive in this regard, given the Orcs' tendencies towards cannibalism. But now the foul creatures surged across the plain, toward the very slopes of Orodruin, known to the Gondor-Men as Mount Doom, which had woken from its slumber and was venting a low pillar of red flame and black smoke and ash into the ruddy sky. At the foot of the mountain, the Orcs found a hurriedly-mustered army of Elves and Men ready to meet them; the Dwarves had held back to defend the Alliance's camp.

The Orcs had charged the shield-wall of the High Elves of Middle Earth, who were armoured with gilded steel, and their charge broke against it. Thousands upon thousands of Orcs were felled by Elvish arrows. King Gil-galad had slain countless Orcs with his enhanted spear Aeglos, and Elrond, who was acting as Gil-galad's herald and standard-bearer, slew countless more with his own Elven-sword.

Fleeing from the Elves, the Orcs had charged the steel-armoured Men of Arnor and Gondor, who wore black tunics emblazoned with the White Tree design that had been the garb of the elite warriors of Numenor before its fall. But the Orcish charge availed nothing, for they were cut to pieces under the swords of the wrathful Men. Elendil, bearing his enchanted sword Narsil, had slain hundreds of Orcs in revenge of his son Anarion, and Isildur's tally had not been far behind.

Then, just as victory seemed at hand, a shadow loomed over Elves and Men. Looking up, they saw a giant, steel-armoured figure, twice as tall as a Man or an Elf, wading towards them through the horde of baying Orcs. The figure bore a mighty mace of steel in its ebon hand. On the third finger of that hand, all who stood near approaching giant could see a golden Ring, its engraved script glowing fiercely. Sauron! At last, the Dark Lord himself had joined in battle against his foes. His monstrous form was a rude surprise to those Elves and Men who had known Sauron in the fair guise of Annatar, Giver of Gifts. Now he was Sauron the Dark Lord, Bringer of Death. He strode towards the captains of the Alliance, who stared up at him grimly. They noted uneasily that the Orcs had fled howling from his presence.

For a moment, Sauron stood still, and contemplated the puny Elf and Man creatures before him. Then, quicker than a lightning-bolt, he swung his mace at the Elves to his right. The mace caught Gil-galad squarely across the chest, snapped his spear Aeglos, and sent his broken body and those of a score of his followers flying through the air, crashing into the dust a hundred feet away! Horrified, the Elves stood rooted to the ground, crying out with despair at the death of their ancient High King and his comrades.

Shouting with rage at the death of their Elven friend, Elendil, Isildur and the Men of Gondor and Arnor had rushed forward and assailed Sauron. But they were like gnats attacking a pillar of stone. Their swords sent showers of sparks off Sauron's armour, yet both his armour and his coal-black skin were impervious to their mortal blades. Sauron swung his mace again, and again, and each time scores of Men were smashed and tossed through the air. Sauron waded into their army like a thresher harvesting a field of grain, only he harvested the lives of his enemies.

Elendil himself had charged at the Dark Lord, shouting "For Earendil and Elros!" and brandishing his enchanted sword Narsil. But Narsil meant nothing to Sauron. Quick as a flash, he spotted Elendil and smashed him full across the chest with his mace. Elendil's broken body hurtled through the air, crashed against a wall of rock, and clattered to the ground below. Narsil fell close by.

Screaming with rage and anguish, Isildur dropped his useless mortal sword, and rushed towards his father. He cradled Elendil in his arms, but the glassy eyes told him that his father's spirit no longer dwelt within its ruined body. Choking back his tears, Isildur could barely restrain his grief.

Then suddenly, a vast shadow loomed above him. Looking up, he saw the armoured form of Sauron the Terrible, who had brought doom to his island home, and ceaseless torment and death to his family and people. Screaming with battle-fury, Isildur had rushed towards Narsil, which lay on the ground not far from Elendil's body. But Sauron's giant steel-clad foot had stamped down on Narsil, shattering it into a dozen pieces. The impact sent Isildur sprawling to the ground.

And so now he waited in the dust for the Dark One's mace to descend upon him, and exterminate the last generation of his family who had dwelt in Numenor. He looked up, beyond all hope, and to his surprise saw that Sauron had taken hold of his mace with his left hand. The talons of Sauron's right hand, golden Ring gleaming from its third finger, reached down towards him. Did the Dark Lord mean to kill Isildur slowly rather than quickly, strangling the life out of him? No doubt, for Sauron bore an especial grudge against Isildur for twice saving the last Fruits of the White Trees. Isildur had escaped with his booty from both Armenelos and Minas Ithil. Now, at last, punishment was due.

Isildur gazed upwards at the golden Ring, bearing ever closer to him as the giant black hand descended. The Ring. Cut if off, a voice spoke in his mind. Cut if off his hand! Hurry!

Frantically, Isildur looked down, and saw that the hilt of Narsil, and a goodly length of sharp blade still adhering to it, lay only a handsbreadth away. With a desperate lunge, Isildur grabbed the hilt, turned towards his foe, and slashed blindly at him.

Whether by chance or fate, Isildur's stroke did not slice through empty air. Rather, it sliced through the very groping finger of the Dark Lord that bore his One Ring! The severed finger fell to the ground, and carrying the Ring with it!

Sauron reeled back, with an earth-shattering cry of agony and despair. He knew instantly what the consequences of Isildur's act would be. He had fashioned this body with the aid of the One Ring, and could only maintain it, or dissolve it in a controlled manner, as long as he bore the Ring. Now that the Ring had been severed from his hand without warning, he could no longer hold his body together. It was disintegrating, beyond his control, before his very eyes!

As the Elves and Men stared up at him in amazement, while the Orcs shrieked with terror and fled gibbering from the battlefield, a pale white light shone forth from all the joints and slits in Sauron's steel armour. From his gigantic body there issued forth a wind that grew stronger by the second. Suddenly, a blinding flash of white light shot out of his armour, and a mighty wave of wind blasted forth from it, knocking all the Men and Elves and fleeing Orcs from their feet. Glancing up, they were struck dumb. Sauron's body had vanished! His mace, his suit of armour, and then his smoking helmet crashed to the ground, empty.

While the Orcs shrieked and groveled, the Elves and Men began picking themselves up from the dust, awed by what they had seen. Then suddenly, their minds numb with joy at triumph unhoped for, they realized what had happened. Isildur had cut the Ring from the Enemy's hand, and now the fiend was no more. Sauron, the enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, had been defeated! As the Orcs fled in terror from the battlefield, the Elves and Men took up a mighty cry; _"Victory! Victory! Hail to Isildur, slayer of fiends! Hail to Isildur, Sauron's bane! Hail to Isildur, who has brought us victory!"_ Their exultant cheers and cries echoed across the wastes of Gorgoroth, as far as the Barad-dur, which brooded sullenly over the realm of its vanquished master.

Isildur, who still lay on the ground, also stared in awe. But he was not captivated by the sight of the Enemy's smoking armour, or the cheers of his comrades. Instead, he found himself fascinated by Sauron's golden Ring, which lay on the ground just a few inches in front of him. Isildur had never before realized that it was so beautiful. As he watched, the black flesh of Sauron's finger crumbled to dust, and was blown away by the wind. Now only the Ring remained, its glowing letters rapidly dimming. Overcome by its allure, Isildur reached forward with his right hand and seized the One Ring.

Instantly he felt pain course through his hand, even though it was protected by a thick leather glove. The Ring, so long in touch with the Enemy's burning skin, was white hot! Isildur stifled a cry, yet could not bring himself to cast away his prize. To his wonderment, the Ring shrank rapidly in size, until it was as small as it had been when he had first seen it, more than a century before. Small enough to fit the finger of a Man's hand. His hand…Isildur noted that the glowing letters on the Ring's surface had faded away completely. He now held in his grasp a small, plain golden ring, though it was still hot to the touch through his glove. Gazing at it, it occurred to him that in the Ring's current, diminished form, one would not realize it was so precious…

"Isildur!" cried a firm voice from above, snapping him out of his reverie. Looking up, he saw Master Elrond. Isildur grimaced as his fist clenched protectively around the burning-hot Ring. He noted absently Elrond bore the blue-gemmed Ring of Vilya on his right hand - for with Sauron's defeat there was nothing to fear in wearing it. Elrond must have taken Vilya from Gil-galad's body almost as soon as the Elven-King had died. What Isildur did not know was that Gil-galad had deeded Vilya to Elrond, should he himself fall in battle. To Isildur, Elrond appeared hardly better than a grave-robber.

"Come with me!" exclamed Elrond, and without futher explanation he pulled Isildur off the ground and began to half drag him, half carry him toward a broad path that led up the ashy slopes of Mount Doom. Elrond led Isildur with ease, for despite Isildur's steel-clad bulk, Elrond's slender arms, like those of all Elves, were far stronger than they appeared. Isildur still clutched the burning Ring in his gloved fist, though it brought him great pain.

As they walked toward the path, they were approached by Lord Cirdan, who had distinguished himself in the battle by his bravery and skill. Cirdan removed his golden helm, and stared at them solemly, as Elrond and Isildur waited for him to address them. "Triumph and tragedy have we witnessed this day" said Cirdan softly. "The Enemy lies defeated, by your bravery Isildur, and by the keen blade of Narsil. Yet two mighty Kings have also fallen. Alas for dear Erenion Gil-galad! He should have lived under the Stars for age after age, until the Breaking of the World! Yet now he lies dead. His death is a bitter blow to our people. I fear the fading of the Elves from Middle Earth shall be hastened by his passing, for many of the Noldor graced these mortal lands with their presence solely for his sake. Now they will sail from the Havens over the Straight Road to Valinor, never to return." Cidan sighed. "And alas for poor Elendil. He was as brave and noble as any Man I ever knew. Though his days were numbered, as are those of all mortals, he should have lived to see our victory, and dwelt at Annuminas in peace and joy for many more years under the Sun." Isildur bowed his head, but remained silent.

Then Cirdan's voice hardened, and he spoke intently. "Yet our victory is not complete. One task still lies before us, and if that task is not fulfilled, then all that we have accomplished this day shall be undone, and all our sacrifices shall have been in vain. You know of what I speak, Master Elrond." Elrond nodded. "I shall not accompany you on your quest" continued Cirdan, "for as the eldest and most venerated of our people to survive the battle, it is my duty to conduct the body of our High King from this accursed place, and bear him to fairer lands, where he may receive a decent burial. And I shall see to it, King Isildur, that your father Elendil is taken up by your Men, so that he may be borne away for his final sleep in his own lands." He then stared meaningfully at Isildur. "But you cannot yet accompany his bier, for your duty lies now with Master Elrond, in the heart of Orodruin. There, you must do as he bids you, and rid this weary Earth of Sauron's evil!"

Cirdan bowed, and then turned to see to Gil-galad's and Elendil's remains. Elrond bowed in reply, and resumed his journey, guiding Isildur up the slopes of the mountain. Isildur, turning his head toward the departing Sea Elf, then realized that Cirdan also bore openly his Elven Ring, Vanya. Isildur frowned, but said nothing.

After perhaps half an hour, Isildur, still winded from the battle, disengaged from Elrond's grip, and continued following him up the path on foot. He dimly noted that the One Ring was cooling, and did not pain him as much as before.

At length they stood at the top of the path, in front of a great open doorway cut into the side of the mountain. A dim orange glow flickered within, while deep rumblings sounded forth ominously. The pillar of fire that had issued forth from the top of the mountain was now subsiding, although Mount Doom still spewed out vast, dark clouds of ash, staining the murky grey sky.

Turning to Isildur, Elrond said "This is the entrance to the Saamath Naur, the Chambers of Fire, called by Men the Cracks of Doom. Here the One Ring was forged, two thousand years ago. Follow me!"

Without speaking a word, Isildur followed Elrond into the dusky corridor. After some distance, the heat growing greater with every step, they came into a vast cavern, carved into the living rock. They stood on top of a narrow precipice that jutted forth above a lake of liquid fire. The fire, bubbling and gurgling, cast an orange glow throughout the chamber. The mountain rumbled, shaking the ground. The hot, dry, sulphurous air singed the skin and lungs of both Elf and Man.

For some moments, Elrond was silent, as he stared into the depths of the fiery lake. Then he turned to Isildur, and addressed him urgently:

"Hurry, Isildur!" cried Elrond. "Now is our chance to destroy evil incarnate, to rid the World of Sauron forever, just as long ago the Valar rid the World of his master Morgoth forever. The moment of your destiny is upon you. Cast the Ring into the fire!"

Isildur swung back his arm, ready to throw the One Ring into the fiery chasm below.

_Isildur._

What? Elrond had not spoken again. Or had he?

_Am I not precious to you?_

Isildur lowered his arm, opened his fist, and stared at the One Ring. It was now quite cool, and gleamed appealingly in the reflected light from the fire.

"Why do you hesitate? Destroy it now!" cried Elrond.

_Claim me for yourself, Isildur, and my power shall serve the King of Men forever!_

Isildur looked up at Elrond, and stared at the Elven-Ring Vilya, which Elrond had so brazenly claimed from Gil-galad's corpse. How typical of an Elf, thought Isildur – the words almost seemed to be whispered into his ear. Yes, how typical. It was not enough that Elrond, the Elven Lord enjoyed the prospect of eternal life, while he, Isildur, was doomed to someday face the horror of death. Elrond wanted Isildur to cast the One Ring, mightiest weapon in the World, into the fires of Mount Doom. Yet he and Cirdan meant to keep their own Rings of Power! Ever had the Elves appeared fair-seeming, while manipulating foolish mortals for their own selfish ends. If Elrond had his way, this Ring – _"My _Ring" thought Isildur – would be cast into the fire, notwithstanding how precious it was, and Elrond, Cirdan and their Elvish minions would still laugh at Isildur, King of Fools, long after Isildur's body had crumbled to dust…

His Precious…

Isildur's hand closed about the Ring in a tight fist. He stared at Elrond with cold, hard eyes, although the trace of a smile showed on his lips.

"No."

Isildur turned his back on Elrond, and strode out of the Cracks of Doom.

"Isildur!" cried Elrond. His voice echoed across the empty chamber in vain.

* * *

In the second year of the Third Age, Isildur, his three eldest sons, and a party of three-score guardsmen were riding on horseback through the Gladden Fields, some five-hundred miles north of Gondor. The blue ridges of the Misty Mountains loomed in the West, while the broad waters of the Great River Anduin lay to the East. As the party rode through the quiet countryside, Isildur reflected on the events that had followed their victory over the Enemy, two years before.

After driving off the last of the Orcs, the armies of Elves and Men had parted company in Mordor. The Elves had seemed strangely angered at the Men of Gondor and Arnor, who for their part could not understand the sudden change in manner of their fair friends. Rumor had it that there had been an argument between Elrond and Isildur over some weapon of the Enemy that Isildur had claimed for himself.

It was soon learned that Isildur had taken the Enemy's magic Ring, which he now bore on a golden chain about his own neck. Incredibly, Elrond, with Cirdan's support, had urged Isldur to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom, claiming that Sauron would return if he did not. The Men found this claim to be absurd – had they not seen Sauron annihilated with their own eyes? Surely, Elrond and Cirdan were motivated by envy towards Isildur, who through his prowess had gained a magic Ring surpassing in power the Rings of the Elves. The Men were disappointed by the jealousy of their Elvish friends, but fully understood their King's decision to keep the Ring for himself. It was Isidlur, not Elrond or Cirdan, who had slain the Dark Lord, and so the One Ring was rightfully Isildur's as his blood-price for the death of his father Elendil, and his brother Anarion.

The Dwarves of Khazad-Dum seemed little interested in the fate of the Ring, for they deemed a quarrel between Elves and Men to be of no concern to their own kind. After the Elves had departed from Gorgorth, the Dwarves remained behind – in exchange for another princely sum of gold and silver coin – and put to use their knowledge as master builders in overseeing the rapid demolition of the Barad-dur. In but a few short months, that massive tower was leveled to its foundations, and the Dwarves returned to their cavern homes. Many of the Men of Gondor and Arnor had seemed more troubled than Isildur that the foundations themselves proved strangely impregnable to any assault, and still hunched over the sterile plain of Gorgoroth. But Isildur had waved his hand dismissively at the ruined fortress of the Enemy, and then led his armies northwest to the Black Gate, and south through Ithilien into the realm of Gondor.

Isildur had installed a large body of Men to guard the recaptured fortress of Minas Ithil. In that place, for the first time, he had put the One Ring on his hand, discovering its curious gift to mortals of invisibility. While wearing the Ring, he had wandered through the fortress, unseen by his Men, and had seen many foul symbols, glowing with a pale corpse light, that had been scrawled on the walls. This, he knew, had been done by the vile Ringwraiths and their Witch King, during their occupation of the place they had named Minas Morgul. The Ringwraiths had disappeared with Sauron, yet this trace of their presence remained. The evil glyphs were invisible to Isildur when he removed the One Ring from his finger, and his Men could not see them, yet they all felt a chill aura to the place. Isildur had suppressed a shudder, and then turned his back on Minas Ithil, where he could never feel at home again.

Isildur and his sons passed West through the ruins of Osgiliath, where the Men of Gondor were beginning to rebuild their fair capital. Together they rode across the Pelennor Fields to seven-tiered Minas Anor, which lay beneath the snowy shoulder of Mount Mindoluin. There, Isildur and his nephew King Meneldil of Gondor had seen to the proper burial of Elendil alongside the tomb of Anarion. Then, in the courtyard of the highest tier of Minas Anor, Isildur had planted the seed of a White Tree, which he had rescued from the Ithil Tree before its destruction by the Witch King. Planting the last remaining seed of a White Tree at Anarion's fortress was Isildur's tribute to his beloved brother.

For two years, Isildur had dwelt at Minas Anor, offering his council and experience to the young Meneldil, who had been eager to learn the mysteries of Kingship from his legendary uncle. When Isildur was satisfied that all was in order in the realm of Gondor, he and his sons had taken leave of Meneldil, and ridden northward along the western bank of the Anduin for many weeks. Isildur had sent the Army of Arnor through the Gap of Angren on the most direct route North-west to their home. However, he and his sons had one last mission to perform, and the most direct route to their destination led them along a different path. Accompanied by their score of guardsmen, they had skirted the forests of Fangorn and Lothlorien, and now had but a short distance to journey further before they came to the High Pass that led west across the mountains to Elrond's house at Rivendell.

Isildur had no intention of apologizing to Elrond for taking the Ring. But he did hope to mend the breach between them, and to persuade Elrond into convincing Cirdan to see reason as well. Isildur still bore anger toward the Elves for their attempt to deceive him into destroying the Ring, but he recognized that prudence demanded making one last effort to restore good relations with them. Isildur was now one-hundred and fifty-four years old, and had recently begun to feel stretched thin by the burden of his years; he did not wish to spend his old age enduring the hostility of Elven Lords who dwelt so close to his own realm of Arnor.

Once he had settled affairs wth Elrond, Isildur and his eldest sons would then journey west to their palace at Annuminas on the shores of Lake Evendim, where even now his wife and his youngest son Valandil were waiting for them. Isildur smiled at the thought of seeing them again.

Suddenly, Isildur was snapped out of his reverie by a scream from one of his guards. The man toppled off his horse, a black-feathered Orc-arrow protruding from his back. "Ambush!" shouted the other guardsmen, as hundreds of Orc-bandits of the Misty Mountains leapt forth from the bushes that lined the narrow trail by the river! Their hideous faces twisting with glee at the success of their trap, and with greed at the prospect of gaining loot from these reckless travelers, the Orcs rained a storm of arrows on the hapless Men.

Cursing himself for a fool for having taken the more direct, yet more dangerous route to Rivendell, and for his overconfidence in taking such a small number of guards with him, Isildur drew his sword and attempted to rally his Men. But it was no use; for every Man, there were at least a dozen Orcs, and their cruel arrows pelted the Men from all directions. Already most of his guards and their horses had been cut down, while other guards ran for their lives, pursued by groups of Orcs. Isildur's own horse was cut down beneath him, and he lept to the ground, sword in hand. His three sons were well armoured, and slew many Orcs with their long swords, but to his horror Isildur watched impotently as each of them was dragged down by a swarm of the filthy vermin.

"Othar!" he shouted. Othar, his squire, who was still mounted on his horse, was the only man within earshot who had not been slain by the Orcs. In his saddle pouch, he carried the shards of Narsil.

"Fly like the wind, Othar" cried Isildur, "and protect Narsil with your life! I shall use my Ring to outwit these beasts. Our revenge on them must wait for another day."

Othar, his youthful features pale with fright, noddled grimly, and then spurred his horse into the forest, trailed by howling Orcs who sought to prevent his escape.

As Isildur watched Othar's flight, he felt his blood turn to icewater. He was the only Man left standing in the fields, and the Orcs were running towards him, arrows, spears and pikes at the ready. Dropping his sword, he snapped the Ring off the golden chain about his neck and put it on the third finger of his right hand.

The Orcs halted their charge, some shrieking in bewilderment, while others gibbered accusations at each other. The last of their prey had vanished before their very eyes! While they squabbled amongst themselves, Isildur, cloaked in the invisibility offered by the Ring, ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the riverbank. He did not dare risk running on foot through the horde of Orcs, lest he crash into one of them. But if he could swim across the river, he would be safe on the far shore.

As Orc-scouts fanned out along the banks, searching for their prey, Isildur slipped quietly into the river, only a few small ripples showing his passage. The Orcs noted the ripples, but ignored them, convinced the prey must be hiding in the bushes. Struggling against the weight of his steel armour, and the strong current, Isildur swam several long strokes under the cold, dark water, hoping to get well away from the shore before surfacing and taking a breath that the Orcs might hear.

Suddenly, to his horror, the Ring slipped off his hand! It was as if it had decided to abandon him just when he needed it most! As he flailed about in the water, searching desperately for the Ring, one of the keen-eyed Orc scouts caught sight of him beneath the surface. Grinning evilly, the Orc fired an arrow straight at him, hitting him full in the back. Two of his companions then spotted their prey, and each of their arrows also found its mark.

Isildur's armour could not protect him against arrows fired from Orcish compound bows at such close range. Mortally wounded, he thrashed about briefly. Then his limp body floated to the surface, and was carried downriver by the current. Some of the Orcs ran along the riverbank, to despoil the corpse when it washed up on the shore.

The Ring settled gently in the mud of the river bottom, waiting to ensnare its next bearer.


End file.
